Moriarty's Gold
by Boston Manor
Summary: COMPLETE! The Great War is over, and Holmes and Watson have settled down to retirement. But a ghost from the past seems determined that their retirements should be neither long nor happy. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

My new story starts with something of a teaser. Apart from the Judge, the named characters are of course the invention of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I have adopted the convention that Watson's middle name was 'Hamish', the Scots version of 'James', which explains why his long suffering wife calls him by that name at one point in the canon.

**Prologue**

**Tuesday, 7****th**** September 1920**

There was not an empty seat to be had in the crowded Number One Court, in the Old Bailey, London that fine, late summer morning. The case which was the subject of all the attention had been followed in the newspapers with increasing degrees of amazement and hysteria as the details had been reported. 'The Times' had been especially vocal in its condemnation of the Defendant.

The visitors sitting in the public Gallery had listened in awe as, day after day, the awful details of the case had been slowly and painstakingly revealed by the lawyers. Each had doubtless formed their own opinion of the man in the dock, whether he was innocent or guilty; but now matters were drawn to a conclusion. There was only going to be one opinion that mattered – that of the 'twelve good men and true' who had been the Jury in the case.

The room now fell silent as that Jury, tired from their deliberations, filed in and took their place in two rows. All eyes from the public gallery were on them, trying no doubt to see if any would give away, by a look or glance, the result and with it, the fate of the Defendant. But the twelve men sat rigidly, face front, unblinking.

A few moments later, everyone rose to their feet as His Lordship Judge Forrester entered and took his seat. A quiet murmur arose as those present regained their seats, and then silence fell again.

At a sign from the Judge, the Clerk of the Court, resplendent in his white wig and gown, stood and faced the Jury. "Gentlemen of the Jury, have you elected a spokesman?"

One man stood. "We have."

The Clerk deferred to the Judge, who now turned to face the Jury. "Gentlemen of the Jury," he addressed the spokesman, "you have reached a verdict?"

"We have, My Lord," he replied.

"Is it unanimous?"

"It is, My Lord."

So this is what the past six weeks had come to. A reply of one word surely meant death for the Defendant; a reply of two words his freedom.

"Good." A pause. "How do you find the Defendant? Guilty or not guilty?"

The silence during the short pause was charged with electric expectation.

"Guilty."

There was a gasp from the people watching in the public gallery. A few calls of "Hurrah!" were quickly silenced as the Judge called for quiet.

Judge Forrester was a man with the air of supreme authority. In other circumstances he probably would have felt important, being as he was the centre of attention. But not today. It seemed that he now addressed the Jury with sadness.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, thank you for your service over these past six weeks. I know it has not been easy, and many of you have known the pressure of exercising your duty in the full glare of publicity. So my thanks in conducting yourselves so well. You are a credit. You are hereby dismissed."

As the Judge finished addressing them, the Jury were shown out of the courtroom. They would not hear the sentence.

The Judge waited until they were gone before turning to face the defendant in the Dock.

"Sebastian Moran, you have been found guilty of the most serious crime that a human being can commit. To take the life of a fellow human being is unforgiveable and for that reason carries the ultimate penalty. You know this." Moran stared at him, meeting his eyes steadily as he continued, a faint smile upon his aged, scarred face. "It has been proved beyond reasonable doubt by a Jury of your peers that you have committed murder, but notwithstanding this it is with some sorrow that I pronounce my judgement upon you. Your military service record is exemplary, your recent actions in the War for King and Empire peerless. I still struggle to understand what drove you to your crime. However ...." He took a deep breath as if he did not want to say the words that followed. He placed a small square of black cloth upon his head.

"For the murder of John Hamish Watson on the 19th January 1920, I sentence you to be taken from this court to a place of execution. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy on your soul."

"All rise." The Clerk of the Court ordered the procedure as the Judge left the Court. The other officials then made their way from the room, and finally the public Gallery was cleared. A small knot of newspaper reporters were first from the Gallery, hurrying to make their reports. Moran was taken below to start his final journey to Pentonville Prison.

In the end, one man and one woman were left sitting in the gallery. Both had been present for the duration of the proceedings. A single tear ran down the woman's cheek, before she finally rose with a sigh and left the gallery for the last time. As she walked past the man, their eyes met. He nodded curtly, his eyes following her graceful movement as she walked through the open Gallery door and into the sunlit corridor beyond.

The man sat alone for many more minutes, his expression fighting to hide his emotions. At last he left his seat and made his way out into the sunshine. He turned and looked back at the mighty edifice of the Court, the home of English law, the basis of rule in the Empire.

Sherlock Holmes knew that he faced a long, lonely journey back to Sussex. But, he thought to himself, at least justice – of sorts – had been done. So why did he feel so unsettled?


	2. Chapter 2

Following the prologue, we can now go back a year to start to see how we got there .....

All characters are the intellectual property of ACD.

**Chapter 1**

**Friday, August 15, 1919**

The official-looking car sat in the lane outside the small Sussex farmhouse, the engine still warm. The country air was full of birdsong; but despite the warmth of the summer's day, the atmosphere inside the house's kitchen was frosty.

The recently retired, former Chief Inspector Gregson stood uneasily before Sherlock Holmes. Holmes' more welcome visitor, Doctor John H Watson, was sitting at the breakfast table, upon which was still laid the morning's meal. The food was, however, ignored as he leaned forward in amazement at the news the veteran ex-policeman had brought to the quiet Sussex cottage. Holmes was gazing in shock - it was in fact Watson who broke the silence.

"But how could this be? It is twenty-five years since Moran was locked up for ever for his heinous crimes – including, I remind you, the attempted murder of Holmes. As we all know full well, dozens of others died at his hand, at the behest of Professor Moriarty. Yet now you tell us he is released?"

"I cannot explain in more detail, Doctor Watson," replied Gregson uncomfortably. "He was lately interred at Bescott House. He volunteered – or was volunteered – for medical treatment."

"The same Bescott House which, you now tell us, is run by the Government," muttered Holmes angrily. After the rigours of the early War years he had again been enjoying his retirement, and the unwelcome news that an old foe was unexpectedly free had come as a great shock to his increasingly frail health. "Come, Gregson, you are going to have to give us more than that. Don't let me down – I've always considered you one of the brightest of the 'Yarders. It sounds too much as though undue influence has been brought to bear in this matter. I never did know why he did not swing." Watson muttered in agreement. "But at least we thought we could all rest safe that he'd spend his days safely locked away. If you were to tell me that he had friends in very high places who wished to see him preserved, I would not be surprised. Come, have the courtesy please to tell us more."

"I can't say more, Mr Holmes, for I don't know any more," Gregson replied uncomfortably. "Clearly it all got caught up in the business of the War. Not to start with of course, but it was just as well he was spared the noose. Maybe they could see what was coming even back then. Moran's skills and his connections across the Empire came in very useful when the War started. He has served the country well." He put up his hand to stop Watson's interruption. "As was indeed your own contribution, sirs, I won't make small of that. Masterful work with Von Bork, Mr Holmes. But they tell me that history will record with thanks Moran's actions, which have saved so many lives."

Watson's face showed his fuming anger only too clearly. "He only served his country under some compunction, though," he replied, glancing at Holmes, who nodded. "So whilst I spent more time in the Fusiliers, he was being waited on hand, foot and finger by those who sent me there. It was not pleasant in Belgium, Gregson," he concluded, bitterly.

"No need to tell me that, Doctor. But, to live for so long under such a sentence does things to a man," came the unconvincing reply. "He obviously came to the point where he recognised that he had been spared and given another chance – another life to live, to prove he was not rotten to the core. The nature of the sentence obviously worked on his mind. Granted, it took a long time for him to submit to the treatment, but in the end he did so with good grace."

"I never did have any time for such quackery," cut in Watson curtly. "It is ridiculous."

"To submit to treatment, or to spend the rest of your life in that hell-hole? What would you have chosen, Doctor?" asked Gregson. "From what I have seen, Bescott is no holiday hotel, I can assure you. I am not supporting what was done, merely telling you of the situation."

Holmes stood angrily. "'What you have seen'? So instead of Moran being locked away to rot, he has been helping to advance the cause of medicine, as some sort of social experiment."

"I do not see how it was an easy choice." Gregson's temper was rising, his face reddening. "The treatments could have killed him for all he knew. Or burnt his brain out. It was not the easy choice. From the reports I have been privy to, I can assure you that the man is no longer any threat to anyone. And you must surely accept that they know what they are doing."

"I do not. I think you are too trusting, Gregson," Holmes replied. He thought for a moment, remembering the affair at Baskerville Hall on Dartmoor all those years previously where Selden, a victim of similar experiments, had been loosed. He sighed. "But at the end of it all, he has been released," he continued, as Watson stood and walked across the room to gaze out of the window across Holmes' small garden. To the left of the lawn, bees going about their business in the morning sun filled the air with their noisy buzzing. To them the cares of the world were as nothing compared to the collection of nectar for the queen bee. "No. It is of no comfort, Gregson," he continued. "I fail to see how the Ministry could condone this."

"Now, Mr Holmes," said Gregson. "He has changed. Away from Professor Moriarty's influence he has found again the decency denied him for so long."

Holmes sighed again. Watson looked at him with concern – his friend of so many years seemed to be ageing before his eyes. At the mere mention of Moriarty's name he seemed to fall deeper into melancholy. "So you would have us believe. I am sorry, but I am with Watson. A saying springs to mind, my old friend – 'a leopard cannot change its spots'."

Gregson smiled ruefully. "So they say, indeed. But perhaps this leopard can. I have seen him."

"Oh, better and better!" exclaimed Holmes. "So this now has the sanction of the Force, does it?"

"Only in that it was our job to monitor him, to make sure his rational behaviour at Bescott continued once he had submitted to the treatment. It fell to me in the last days of my service to watch over him. And I have only now retired content that he was reformed. It seems all perfectly reasonable. I am not surprised they have finally decided to release him. He can do no harm."

"You kept me in the dark, Gregson," said Holmes, not without bitterness. "I thought I knew you. I expected better of you. This is a man, I would remind you," he continued, "who takes the life of a man with no concern or thought. No regret or sensibility. He has no moral compass."

"The doctors at Bescott believe he has. And what is more, they believe that he has re-found that compass."

"He can only find something he once had!" exclaimed Holmes.

"We have no right to challenge this?" interrupted Watson.

"It has already been done; it is too late. I learned that he has been released this morning," replied Gregson. "And before you ask, you will of course understand that I could not tell you of his whereabouts, even if I knew – which I do not. I am breaking a number of direct instructions from my former superiors by my even being here." He paused, and then continued almost plaintively, "I think you are being harsh on me. I am here because I am your friend, whatever you may think, Mr Holmes."

"I think we both understand the situation only too well," replied Holmes. He knew how hard Gregson found it to bend the rules. He turned to Watson with a resigned sigh. "Ah, well, my old friend, and to think I retired here safe, so I thought, in the knowledge that my life's work had been concluded and that, in my own small way, I had helped to bring justice to this part of the world. It is strange, is it not, how mistaken one can be?"

"I really think you are taking this too seriously, Mr Holmes." Gregson tried for the last time to reassure the two friends, but they were having none of it. Within a few minutes he was back in his car, making his way back up the road to London. In the cottage Holmes and Watson were both sitting dejectedly in the kitchen of the cottage, with a glass of brandy before them to fortify their spirits. The uneaten part of their breakfast was left on the table.

"Absolutely unbelievable!" spat Holmes. "They cannot see where this will lead. Gregson left it too late - he's too old for the game if he takes what they say for granted."

"They?"

"Gregson has been leaned on," replied Holmes. "Clearly we were not supposed to know about the release. I will allow him credit for that – at least we now know that Moran is free. The Ministry obviously did not want us to know. The release is as much a part of the experiment on Moran as was the treatment. Sterling war service indeed! There is something going on here, Watson, and I don't like it."

In spite of the dark news, Watson found himself smiling at Holmes' faint praise of Gregson. "You fear that Moran will seek to remedy the injustices he thinks he has suffered, don't you, Holmes?"

"Of course he will. We can both see it."

"I was afraid you would say that. Most of that upset, of course, he latterly suffered at your hand. He was brought to whatever justice he has received, by your actions alone. I'll never forget that look on his face as he realised the game was up regarding Adair. I'll warrant he bears something of a grudge towards you, my friend."

"Exactly," mused Holmes. "The Adair affair was most invigorating. And yet, they think he has now reformed. But what if he has not? I have 'upset', as you put it, many people, some of whom remain in positions of power to this day. Perhaps they show their hand in allowing his release."

Watson topped up the brandy glasses. "I have read of the treatments, Holmes," he said. "The Americans have a term for them – 'snake oil'. To suppose that electric shocks and brain surgery can give a man back his right mind is at best extremely hopeful and at worst potentially lethal."

"And they will not tell us where he is." Holmes would not be deflected.

"Only that he has been released this morning."

Holmes got up and walked across to the small kitchen sink. Through the window behind it the meadow was a picture of summer flowers. A hammock swayed gently in the breeze as the wind ruffled the trees in the orchard, the buzzing of the bees adding an almost soporific quality to the air. He stood silently for a few moments, as though running through a number of scenarios in his mind.

"Perhaps, he has reformed?" Holmes' voice, now trembling almost plaintively, could not hide the hope he held. Watson sighed, got up from his chair and joined Holmes at the window.

"In truth?" Watson shrugged. "I don't know, Holmes. Until he puts a foot wrong, I suppose we have nothing to fear but fear itself. Perhaps it is as they say, that he is a new man. Maybe we're getting too old, too distrustful. I know I am. I feel so tired of it all, Holmes."

"The problem of course will be if he proves everyone wrong. With me – or even worse, us." Holmes paused, thoughtfully observing the bees as they entered and left the hive. "I wonder if that's what someone hopes?" he mused. "And if so, who? The list would doubtless be a long one! So after all these years, in the frailty of old age we now find ourselves hoping that a former opponent is either older and slower than we are, or has been so completely reformed that it is as though sixty years of his old self has been erased at a stroke."

"Holmes, maybe we should just accept the situation. He is now – what? - close to eighty? He will certainly be slower, and more tired, than us! The world has changed over the past decade, after all. Perhaps there is nothing to fear. I know the initial shock was as great as anything I have known, but now, on reflection, it might be nothing ....?"

Holmes smiled at his old friend. "Hope on, Watson!" he laughed. "I think you underestimate what years of feeding your soul with bitter thoughts of revenge can do! But, oh! It is good to have you around. These forty years of knowing you, and it is still as refreshing as ever. Yes, you hope if you will. But like you, my old friend, I am getting too old for all this. For the first time in years, I will be tempted to lock the cottage door tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **for a change, since I mention no names, I don't need a disclaimer. Oh, hang on, I don't need this bit, then, do I? Ignore that last sentence.

**Chapter 2**

He fights to wake, but cannot.

_He hears his father's voice. Shouting. Two voices shouting. Anger, threats. What 'broken promises'? _

_Then, a terrible scream echoes through his head. A noise, a terrible, final noise. The noise, he knows, of death. _

_Sickening, crunching blows. Stop, please stop!_

_Then, the sound of running feet._

_More shouting, another scream. This time, he knows, his mother's scream._

_He is under the bedclothes, the colours of his dream illuminating the darkness of his prison; clinging, holding him down. All is now silent, apart from the deep breathing from the next bed. The feeling of deep, unutterable horror grows cold in his stomach, weighs him down. He is drowning, drowning._

_He whispers, his voice labours as though his tongue is engorged. The air feels like treacle. His words sound hoarse as they finally escape from his lips._

"_What has happened?"_

_A voice he knows. "I fear the worst. Stay here."_

_Stockinged footsteps cross the bedroom, and the door creaks open. Then silence, for what seems like an eternity._

_At last - "Come quick!"_

_He is out of the bed, running downstairs, legs feel as though they are weighed with lead. He knows what he will find. It is as it always is in this dream. Yet it is not a dream._

_His parents lying on the threshold. So much blood._

_And standing there, on the path outside the front door, is a stranger. A man. His face is hidden, but he knows him, surely? _

_His brother does not struggle in the stranger's vice-like grip. The stranger is holding a gun to his brother's head._

_Their brotherly eyes meet, pupils wide. Now the gun is turned slowly – oh, so slowly - to point instead towards his own body. _

_The hidden face is always there at the back of his mind. He cannot see, he cannot see ..... Except, the mouth. A smile. Cruel and cold, and yet – another emotion. He cannot see. He cannot understand. What is the other emotion? Frustration burns within him._

_He hears the gun cocked as the stranger prepares to fire. Time has stopped; the hallway clock is silent._

_More screaming. It is his own._

He wakes, his body bathed in sweat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **the characters of Holmes and Watson belong to ACD.

**Chapter 3**

**Monday, August 18, 1919**

Sherlock Holmes had awoken from the nightmare with a start, bathed with sweat, shouting. He had dismissed Watson as he burst into the room, who was obviously thinking that a work of murder had been in progress. They had both been sorely affected by Gregson's revelations.

Holmes had not slept the night after the former policeman's visit, nor on Saturday, but the Sunday night he had finally resigned to the compromise of exhaustion that older age had inevitably brought. But the night had brought him no rest.

It was the nightmare that sometimes played itself out in his mind at times of high stress. It had caught him by surprise this time – it had been more than four years since he had last had it, and he had hoped that he had, at last, grown out of this singular weakness.

He did not relish it, and was left with the numbing sense of frustration that it always brought. His mind rebelled against the sense of uncertainty and lack of clarity it left behind. Every time he was left deeply perturbed and upset, not at the contents – he had worked out long ago what it was about – but the lingering sense of doubt that it left.

He never saw the assailant's face. He saw his brother Mycroft of course, and he saw his parents' bodies (never clearly, his subconscious had buried that image so deep that even his highly attuned mind could not fathom it); but the murderer's face was always hidden. All he could remember was the smile – and a vague, unsettling feeling that the smile did not convey merely the emotion of a cold killer. It a very strange way, it was almost as though the smile was his own.

As the morning passed, he spent a great deal of time in the garden, alone in his thoughts. Watson had tried to engage him in conversation over breakfast but had at last retired to the small morning room, a safe distance from Holmes' testiness. But every time a vehicle had driven past on the lane, throwing up clouds of dust from the dry ground, both of them anxiously looked to see who was the driver.

Watson was starting to get quite concerned about the mental state of both himself and that of his old friend, and now that Holmes had experienced such a troubled night that concern was redoubled. He was now eager to return to London. What should have been a pleasant weekend in the country had turned into a nightmare.

At last Holmes returned from the garden, seemingly calmer, as though he had spent the lone hours rationalising and confronting the experience, and had found a degree of solace at last. Watson resolved to speak to him, and made his way through into the kitchen.

"Holmes!" he exclaimed as he entered. "This dream. I want a straight answer. Have you been using ... you know .... it?"

Holmes met his gaze steadily. "The cocaine? No. I have not used it for some years, my friend. Although, of course it is sleeping, never banished. I am sorry, I have not been good company this weekend, have I? But you must admit that the manner of Gregson's interruption was enough to throw a dark shadow over even the brightest of celebrations." He was trying to lighten the mood, having seen how upset Watson had been earlier.

"My birthday being ruined has nothing to do with it," replied Watson. "I am merely concerned. Even at your age – especially at your age – I don't know how you do it. You don't sleep for seventy hours, and then the sleep you do get finishes with the house in uproar. I thought Moran was here and a murder had been done."

"The body, once trained, should never lose its ability to prevail over tiredness, Watson. The power of the mind. But I am old, Watson. I feel it in my bones of late."

Watson turned the conversation to a new route. "Are you any nearer a conclusion about my suggestion?"

"Of returning to London? Yes, I have, and yes, I will, thank you, Watson. My bags are packed."

"Train?"

"Horton went past an hour ago and I asked him about a lift. He has business in Croydon this morning, so he is going to give us a run in his car, from where we will catch the Brighton train into Charing Cross. We should be safely tucked up in our old digs before lunch."

"I'm glad you decided to keep the rooms, Holmes."

"They have been useful, have they not?" smiled Holmes. "It is good to have a professional base – however much I try, I find that I have never really been allowed to retire. Oh, I know I was a trifle short with Gregson on Friday, but really, I've been in Sussex these past fifteen years, and still at least four times a year I'm at the beck and call of those who should know better."

Watson smiled, encouraged by the improvement of Holmes' mood, and the news that the reason for his disturbed night was not, as he had feared, caused by a return to 'the habits of old'.

"It is only so because you will not allow yourself to retire, Holmes."

Holmes returned the smile. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Yes, it is. Publish as much as you like, Holmes, and I must admit you do seem to have built up as fervent an academic following over the past decade or so as I used to have with my records of your criminal detection; but you'll never be happy unless you're setting the world to rights."

"You will join me of course."

"I assumed as much. This business with Moran concerns us both, that much is clear. It will be like old times again. These last few years you have cut me off somewhat."

"You were busy with your own efforts in the War, my friend," replied Holmes. "And then, of course, on your return ... let us not speak of it again. But I recall you spending this weekend remonstrating with me that you were getting 'too old' for this kind of thing."

"That may be so," replied Watson reluctantly. "but that doesn't stop me showing an interest. Just don't ask me to save you from any precarious situations. I am not up to it. So, what time is Mr Horton calling?"

"Ten minutes."

"Holmes!" Watson saw the smile in Holmes' eyes. "You're impossible! Some things never change with you, do they?"

* * *

Later that day the two friends were settled into their old rooms at 221B Baker Street. The view from the bay window had changed from when Holmes practised from the address at the height of his fame – gone were the horses and carts, replaced by cars and lorries. But the same bustle was still there in the streets. And there were a lot more people about.

Mrs Hudson had long since handed over the keys of the property to her niece, a pleasant enough young lady by the name of Miss Violet Harrison; one of the first ladies to be educated at Oxford, and an accomplished musician, who on his previous stays had spent some evenings with Holmes, experimenting with violin duets. She had greeted them warmly, and they had found the rooms exactly as they had always been; Holmes' instructions that nothing was to be disturbed had been followed to the letter, albeit a weekly clean kept the worst of the dust off the furniture. Mrs Hudson had made it a condition of handing over the management of 221B to Miss Harrison that Holmes' word was to be followed, exactly.

Once the gentlemen had had time to settle in, she brought them a pot of tea.

"I'm going out later, gentlemen," she said, "and I will not be returning until late evening. I have arranged for my friend Emma to sit the house whilst I am away. She's an old school friend, perfectly capable, so if you need anything please just ask her."

"A very capable young lady herself," mused Watson as she left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. "Now, Holmes, you can speak freely. Your concern is obvious regarding our return here."

"Of course. Moran knows where this place is; when we last met he was shooting a bust of me through this very window."

"So why the concern? I thought that, but you seemed resolute in coming."

"Well, I am starting to wonder whether there is, as they say, 'safety in numbers'. I thought of returning here because somehow, with all the hustle and bustle of the city, it seems more unlikely that an attempt would be made on us by Moran. Rather here than in the depths of the Sussex countryside!"

Watson laughed. "Indeed, Holmes! So, again I ask, your concern?"

Holmes thought for a moment. "It is just that, now we are back, I am unsure you should be involved, my friend. He will come after me. I am the cause of his last arrest. He will reason that it is through me that he has suffered. So I am wondering whether having you here is such a good idea."

Watson looked in surprise at his old friend. He had rarely heard Holmes speak in this way. There seemed genuine fear in his voice – more than just passing concern. "You fill me with dread, Holmes," he replied at length; "But you shall not be here alone. We have been through too many situations together for me to leave now."

"I knew you would say that," replied Holmes with a resigned smile. "But I had to try, you understand."

"Of course. Let us put such thoughts out of our minds and see what there is to be done."

They spent the rest of the morning, such as was left to them, with Holmes lying prone on the floor, poring over his old files which still lined the wall of the room. Watson went out and bought a paper, and on his return spent the time quietly reading through it, checking for any word or indication of events which might be linked to the release to freedom of Moran. But there was nothing. The world seemed to be making a point of ignoring bad news; people had perhaps had enough of war and disease, and now were desperate for good news. Sport, society gossip and the latest dance craze were the meat of the news today. Watson threw the pages away with disgust, and walked over to the window, absent mindedly casting his eye over the milling crowds.

Almost subconsciously he realised that two men standing on the opposite pavement were acting suspiciously; they were clearly watching the house, without being too obtrusive. "Holmes!" he whispered, moving away from the window. "We are being watched."

Holmes did not raise his head from the papers he was examining. "Yes, I know."

"You are not concerned that we are discovered?"

"Hardly. They are police. Whilst you were getting your paper I phoned Junior Lestrade to advise of our arrival. I may worry somewhat about being here, but I am not above taking some minor precautions."

"Well, that's a change!" laughed Watson, relieved. "But I thought you never had much stock in the Force? Or do you have greater confidence in young Lestrade than with his father?"

"'Never had much stock in the Force'? My dear fellow, whatever gave you that idea?" smiled Holmes in reply. He got up from the floor and stretched, still as cat-like as in his younger days. "But it is useful for the other party to see we are not a ship sailing alone."

"I am relieved to hear it," said Watson. "Otherwise I would think that old age has started to soften you. And that would not be the Sherlock Holmes I know."

They broke for lunch, spending a comfortable hour in the Bakers Arms, a respectable public house which, since their earlier days, had gradually changed from being a drinking house to a restaurant. Holmes paid the bill for them both; his means were still supported by the fees he charged for his services. Watson started to wonder whether Holmes was as retired as he made out to be. Perhaps he kept from his 'Boswell' the full scale of his ongoing workload. On the way back to 221B Holmes bought a variety of newspapers from the stand.

The afternoon came and went, until nearing tea time Holmes at last completed the task he had set himself. He drew himself up to his full height, stretched, turned to Watson and said the single word - "Nothing."

"Nothing? You expected this?"

"I did wonder. It is a good sign – it shows that whilst in the care of His Majesty Moran has indeed severed all links with his previous lifestyle. At least as far as I can see."

"You can tell?" Watson knew he was mistaken to speak thus, as soon as the words had left his lips.

"Of course!" exclaimed Holmes. "Every criminal mind has its own unique way of expressing itself. The timing of crimes, the methods used, places, associates; even the class of person against whom the crime is committed. Of course I have had to spend some time with my records, getting reacquainted with Moran's _modus operandi_. But nothing in my papers, or the day's newspapers, fits Moran or his influence. Bearing in mind that the good Professor was always one step removed from the 'front line' as it were, the actual crime, I have a good idea of what Moran's influence looks like. And there is nothing."

"That is good, then."

"I will rest easier, yes."

The knock at the door was followed by the entry of a shy, dark haired young woman who introduced herself to them as 'Emma'. She left the tea things quietly, and Holmes and Watson settled down. Above the noise of the street, they could hear a growing sound of voices, and after a short time they heard that it was a newspaper vendor, working the street with the late edition. Watson finished his food and went downstairs to get a copy.

"I know there is something wrong from the pattern of your footsteps on the stair," said Holmes as Watson re-entered the room a few minutes later. Then - "Great heavens, man, what is the matter?"

Watson's face was as white as a sheet, and handed the paper to Holmes. His eyes clouded over as he read the headline.

**COLD BLOODED MURDER**

RESPECTED TRADER 'EXECUTED'

HUNT ON FOR ROBERT WIGGINS' KILLER

"So it starts," said Holmes softly, as a tear ran down his cheek. "The Baker Street Irregulars. Who is next?"


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – major characters belong to ACD of course.

**Chapter 4**

**Monday, August 18, 1919**

Adam Lestrade – or 'Junior Lestrade' as Holmes called him – was the image of his father, in looks as well as temperament. With one important difference – he was only too willing to allow Holmes into his confidence, to learn, and to use what he had learned. He had on more than one occasion been able to solve a quite desperate riddle using Holmes' techniques. Together with his father and some of his colleagues, he was another who was now encouraging Holmes at every opportunity to allow records of his exploits to be published for the 'greater good' – or, as he tactfully put it, to "stop Mr Holmes' methods dying with him". So he was not altogether surprised when, shortly after seven, Holmes and Watson were in his office asking to see the body of the late Robert Wiggins.

"I won't ask why, Mr Holmes," he said, deferentially. "I know you were close in past years, what with you supporting those young lads. A bunch of tearaways if ever there was, but my dad said that they helped out on more than one occasion when more conventional means would not have produced a result."

Holmes had been most upset for a full half hour after Watson broke the news of Wiggins' death, but had then determined to see the body. Watson was impressed that he wished to pay his respects, and had wasted no time in supporting his friend in his quest.

Minutes later, Lestrade had shown them into the mortuary where an assistant wheeled out the body, which was discretely covered by a sheet. "I expect you'll want a few minutes alone, sirs," he said, "to pay your respects? I will be outside." With that he left the room. Holmes stood silently for a moment before the shrouded figures, and then turned to Watson with urgency.

"Doctor. I need information – fast. I need to know exactly – exactly, mark you – the cause of death; if you can the time; and what weapon if any was used. Yes?"

"You want to verify it was Moran."

"Indeed. Go to it."

Watson uncovered the body and spent the next few minutes in professional detachment as he inspected the body. At last he covered the body again, and just had time to answer Holmes' question as Lestrade entered the room.

"Lestrade, where was the body found?" asked Holmes.

"Near Billingsgate Market, corner of Chapel Street. Wiggins had a shop nearby and was obviously making his way there from the Market when he was accosted."

"I agree that the deed has all the marks of an execution." Watson smiled to himself. Holmes was teasing out of the policeman what they knew, without him knowing it.

"Yes, Mr Holmes," replied Lestrade. "There were a few signs of a struggle, but in the end he was trussed up like a prize bird – sorry if that sounds insensitive – forced onto his knees and shot from close range, once, in the head."

"And you have no idea why, or who, of course."

"It's a dark part of the city," replied the policeman. "All sorts of gangs operate there, not all of them from this part of the world, either, if you get my drift. Had a problem with some Italians a little while back, and before that some Chinese were trying on some racket or other."

"Well, thank you, Lestrade," finished Holmes. "That has been most helpful. Please give my regards to your father. You will not object, I trust, to my visiting the scene of the crime at some point. Out of respect, you understand."

"Why of course, Mr Holmes," replied Lestrade, and with that Holmes and Watson left the police station and made their way back along the street.

"Well, Watson, that was a pretty scene, was it not?" asked Holmes when they were out of earshot.

"I would agree as to the execution description," replied Watson. "It was a clinical piece of work. Lestrade's description is accurate enough. But to do it in broad daylight, Holmes! He's not been dead six hours."

"Hence the late edition of the paper; they must have held the press for the latest news. But I would absolutely guarantee that it was not the work of Moran," mused Holmes.

"What makes you say that?"

"Come now. I have spent the afternoon poring over my records of his methods. It does not fit. He is a hunter. He does not execute. He stalks his prey, it is almost part of a game. He would not truss up poor Wiggins and despatch him in such a manner. There is no sport in tethered prey."

"But he may be different now," replied Watson, his heart beating faster in the hope that what he had seen as impending doom might not be so. Holmes again cast him a sideways glance.

"You no more believe that the treatment has changed him than I do."

"But he would have to change his ways, Holmes, in any event! He has no air gun, for one. That's in the Scotland Yard Museum."

"Perhaps. I will revoke the words I used earlier and then say that I am almost certainly convinced it is not Moran's work. There, does that satisfy you?" he added with a smile.

Watson knew when he was defeated. "So what now?"

"The scene of the crime of course. Taxi!"

One of the new black cabs which plied the streets of the capital drew up alongside them, and having issued directions Holmes sat back in the seat and watched Watson's face carefully. At last, Watson asked the question he knew Holmes was waiting for.

"If this is not the work of Moran, then does it mean we are not under threat?"

"I think it is too early to say," replied Holmes with refreshing honesty. "But from our point of view it would appear so. In this instance anyway. Perhaps you are too quick to see Moran's hand everywhere. Although until we have visited the scene I will allow you that I cannot be sure. Just 'almost certain'. But ..." he continued, dropping his voice so that the taxi driver could not hear him, "... remember that Moran controlled the late Professor's affairs whilst I was away as Sigerson; and of course he did so during the height of Moriarty's reign. The Professor always ensured that nothing could be traced back to him. Perhaps there is another possibility – that Moran has been learning from his former master, and keeping out of sight at present."

Within a few short minutes they were outside Billingsgate Market. The site of the murder was still roped off and guarded, but the policeman stepped aside as the well known figure of Holmes approached. _How things change_, thought Watson. _In the old days he was a thorn in their flesh, an annoyance. Now he is so well known they step aside for him. They know who he is and what he can do._

Holmes spent a few minutes on his knees, inspecting the cobbled path and yard closely. At one point he picked up a small piece of cloth, smelled it, rolled it between his fingers, but then replaced it where it had lain. At another, he picked up a small fragment of something and put it in his pocket. The blood from the shooting was dry, and he examined carefully the stained cobbles for information.

He was done after ten minutes, and the two men walked off towards the waiting taxi for the journey back to Baker Street.

Holmes was silent for the journey, and did not speak again until they had been ushered back into 221B by Violet Harrison's friend Emma, and were sitting in the familiar quarters with a half empty brandy bottle on the table between them. A clock struck the three quarter hour.

"The person who pulled the trigger was definitely not Moran," said Holmes at last.

Watson did not know whether to feel better or worse for this news. He settled for better, since it probably meant that Moran might not be coming after them after all. Instead, he proposed, "Who, then?"

"There was a piece of torn shirt at the scene. From a struggle perhaps ...."

"As I said at the mortuary, there were a small number of marks on the body which could indicate some rough handling – not assault exactly, but force nonetheless. He was partially strangled to subdue him."

"Agreed. And the remains of a smoked pipe's contents, tapped out against the wall. They were waiting for him, Watson. It was calculated and deliberate. They marked him as he went into the Market, and struck as soon as the deed would not be seen, or discovered too quickly. What does that tell you?"

"Well, from the tale you tell it is almost as though someone – someone powerful – wanted him out of the way. It sounds like a gangland killing."

"Indeed, that is the conclusion I had come to. Not least that smell; a particular tobacco. With a hint of oriental spices – opiates and the like. I think our murderer was commissioned to get rid of poor Wiggins, and I would lay odds on the reason being that Wiggins – a successful trader, mark you – was perhaps not keeping up his payments."

"Protection money, you mean?"

"Precisely."

Watson sat in silence for a few moments. "What a bitter end," he ventured at last. "I can still see him as an impetuous lad in my mind's eye. It is too bad."

"But at least I am here to see that justice is done, Watson."

"You are going after the murderer, then. Good."

"It might take our minds off the other matter which dogs us. I cannot help but feel he is out there, Watson. Somewhere. Somewhere close." He gave Watson a look which sent a shiver down the latter's spine.

"Perhaps you need a rest, old man," said Watson quickly. "The journey up from Sussex, the shock, it has worn you out. We can set about the Wiggins case in the morning."

"Gone are the days, Watson, when we would stalk the streets at all hours, eh!" Holmes laughed. "But you are right. There is nothing more we can do this night. In the morning you will send out to young Lestrade and we will see ... what we will see. But before then, a smoke, I think."

"Not your best 'shag', Holmes!" smiled Watson.

"And why not? I need this particular brand to help me concentrate, as well you know!" said Holmes in response. "Just a quick pipe, just to help me set things in their right order."

Watson suddenly found that, with all the excitement and travel, the shock of Wiggins' death, and an evening excursion to Billingsgate, the lateness of the hour was now catching up with him at last. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.

"Watson, my dear fellow! It is gone ten. Past your bedtime!" Holmes laughed aloud. "Oh, it is good to be back on the hunt!"

"Have a care, Holmes. Neither of us are as quick as we used to be."

"Of that I am well aware," replied Holmes, lighting up. Watson stifled a cough. "I am very hopeful that this matter regarding Wiggins will prove to be an isolated event, and straightforward enough to resolve. My experience of these types are that they are not careful in covering their trail." He thought for a moment. "You know, Watson, I have often regretted not keeping in such close touch with the Irregulars. I regret it now even more. Perhaps if this worry over Moran is ultimately unfounded, we could have a reunion."

Watson looked in amazement at Holmes. He had hardly ever heard Holmes talk in this way before. The look on his face must have been obvious.

"What is the matter? I am allowed to have feelings, am I not?"

"Well, of course, it's just that ..." stuttered Watson.

"Come, man! It is bad enough you keeping on about how old you feel without being reminded that it is a good many years since I have seen many of those who helped us. I just want to ... for old times' sake, you know."

Watson was not at all sure whether he knew, but was not going to say so. He just nodded in agreement. Holmes was human, after all .....

They heard the doorbell ring downstairs. Holmes got up from his seat and went over to the window, but whoever it was at the door had already been let in by Emma. Holmes bit his lip as he turned to Watson. "I am not sure whether Miss Emma has been briefed about the rules for visitors, Watson...."

By now there were muffled voices and quick footsteps on the stair, and even as Holmes reached towards the table, the door opened. Watson, who had his back to the door, and who was still in the middle of another yawn, had missed the urgency in Holmes' voice. "Yes, Emma, what is it?" he said as he turned to face the door.

"Someone to see you," said Moran, a pistol in each hand. He smiled once, just a quick flicker over his face. The sound of the triggers being cocked was the only noise in the absolute silence which fell on the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Moran and Moriarty belong to ACD. By the way, keep an eye on the dates.

**Chapter 5**

**18 November 1887**

Moran sat uncomfortably at the desk, facing the Professor. The room was dimly lit and barely furnished – just the desk and two chairs, a gas lamp turned down low, a rug on the floor, an unprofessionally produced picture of a country house hanging on the wall.

In truth he was not used to being on the receiving end of the Professor's questions. His usual role was more to enforce the wishes of his erstwhile employer. But not tonight. Tonight he knew he was only a few wrong words from the inevitable result of failing his master. He tried to sit more upright in the chair, but he knew that sweat was upon his brow.

"It was really a quite simple task, Moran," said Moriarty. His voice was cold, ruthless, every word calculated to convey his quiet displeasure.

"I did not set out to fail, Professor," replied Moran. "I have served you well, you know that. This is the first time you have had cause to summon me in this way."

"I know there is much that you could tell others, should you so wish."

"Never."

"Never? Never is a long time. Things change."

"You have nothing to fear from me, Professor. I would rather die than betray you."

"Perhaps. And yet, here we sit. And I put it to you that betrayal is precisely what we are here to talk about, my old friend."

Even the word 'friend' carried an air of threat about it.

"I have not betrayed you. It is just that ... events took an unexpected turn."

"A simple task. To relieve the Duchess of Mortonwell of her jewellery collection. How could anything be 'unexpected' in that? Holmes is sick – some reports have him at the point of madness. He is exhausted trying to keep up with me. There was nothing in your way."

"I saw the Duchess herself."

"So you say. But we are not talking as though she had heavily armed guards, my friend."

There it was, that word again. So cold.

"Guards? I'm not talking of guards. Maybe it would have been better had there been. It is the lady herself of which I speak."

"I can read you like a book, Moran," spat Moriarty. "Ever the _gallant_, eh? Ever the gentleman? Until the trap you so carefully lay closes."

"Not this time; I have a reputation to keep up."

"It will serve you well to remember that so do I."

"If my reputation is damaged I will not have the access I need to high society. That is what you need me for."

Before the words were out of his mouth he knew he had spoken badly. The Professor leaped from his seat in an explosion of anger.

"Need you? _Need you_?" he exclaimed, thumping the desk with his hand. "I do not _need you_, Moran! Rather it seems as though you need me, doesn't it? Without me, where would you be? A spent up old adventurer, penniless, friendless. I have taken you and moulded you into a thing I can use. But even the best made things can be replaced." His anger was subsiding, and he took his seat again. "Come, let us not fall out. You can have another chance. Prove yourself to me, and we will not speak of this matter again. Go back to the Duchess, and this time, do not woo her, do not play the lover; take the jewellery and bring it to the usual place."

"It will be difficult."

"That is what I pay you for. You speak of 'reputation'. What about mine? An upright intellectual, respected and, by some, almost worshipped – my words are law. I bring order to chaos. Never forget that."

Moran sighed with resignation. "I will succeed."

"Good."

"But, please, Professor, after tonight, never again ask me to harm this family."

"I will do as I please. Remember who is paying your not inconsiderable expenses to grant you access into the circles of the great and the good."

"I am grateful, Professor. But the Duchess – she has become somewhat dear to me."

"Be careful, Moran," said Moriarty, his tone lowering and becoming threatening again. "That way madness lies. Do not think that you can play both sides at once. You are either for me, and do what I say at the time that I ask you, or you get – distracted. And if you get distracted, then you will make mistakes. I speak from bitter experience." For a moment, his eyes seemed to be seeing something far away, long ago. "And if you make mistakes, you are of no use to me. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very."

"Then go, cut whatever tie has developed between you and the Duchess, and get me the jewels. They are needed for a game I wish to play with Lord Fairclough later this week. Do not fail me."

Moran rose from his chair. "I will not fail," he said, and turned towards the door.

"No, I am sure you will not," Moriarty said as Moran opened the door. "You know what will happen otherwise."

Moran closed the door behind him, and walked out of the building into the daylight. Only when he was two streets away did he stop and slump into a doorway. Gasping sobs racked his body. The shock of his narrow escape was combined with the knowledge that he would indeed have to make a betrayal that very night. The woman he had only briefly come to love would be penniless by morning. What would she do then, a young widow with no other family? What would become of her? Surely she had friends? Yes, surely she did. She would recover.

But, at the same time, the shocking realisation came to him - what could _he_ do? Nothing. He was caught in Moriarty's web as surely as a fly in a spider's. He knew it, and more than that, he knew he had done so willingly.

But it was only now that he fully understood the price he was paying for working with the Professor. He would be forever friendless, forever hopeless and unloved, forever distrusted and feared; whilst the Professor was free to live openly and freely.

Would he have had it otherwise?

Too late to change. Much too late.

He started on his way towards Mortonwell Grange.


	7. Chapter 7

Just a short chapter this time, set a few years after the flashback of the last chapter – but all part of the jigsaw. I hope it will all work in the end ...!

Disclaimer: Moran is a creation of ACD.

**Chapter 6**

**January 3, 1895**

He stared at the newspaper.

Moran remembered that day well; the events were burned into his mind. The day in question had been the best part of a year ago – a spring day, March 27th 1894. And why had that day been so special? Because of her, of course.

It had come as such a shock to be able to reanimate his acquaintance with the Duchess of Mortonwell. Not that was the title that she had gone by, of course; she was now just plain 'Mary'.

He had been walking along Park Lane when – there she was. Just a face in the crowd at first, and he had been uncertain that it was she – but the full realisation had finally dawned as she turned and their eyes met. She had gasped as she saw him, and, he recalled, likewise he on seeing her; he saw her put her hand to her mouth, and then turn as if to move away. But then, as though she had resolved to face him, she had relented and had made her way though the crowd towards him. In the middle of the hubbub of the fashionable West End, they had met and within minutes were exchanging news of the intervening years since they had last met, talking as though they had never been apart.

He had been called away on a secret mission, he had explained. He had been out of the country and unable to communicate with anyone. What he had thought would be a posting lasting a couple of weeks had extended first to months and then years. All lies of course, but she was not to know. He was thinking on his feet. He of course had deeply regretted any hurt he had caused, to her especially. He had expressed his anger and shock as she told him that later, on the evening of the day they had last seen each other, her house had been burgled. All her jewellery, diamonds, gold had been taken.

He listened on in silence as she told of her life in the next years, spent eking out a living, hand to mouth, replying on her name and the kindness of strangers. But that was all forgotten now. She had been able to start again, provided initially by a small winning on the Ascot race; she had then found that she could build on those winnings, as long as she was careful not to invest too much at any one time. She was now, she said proudly, both a 'woman of leisure' and a 'woman of substance'; able to pick and choose the course of her life, able to choose what she would do next. She reeled off a list of the exotic places she had visited – Spain, France, Morocco ...

He had listened rapt as she told him at last that her thoughts had always been for him; that she fully understood that he had to serve his country and that if the same was to arise again he should not think twice of following his orders again. All had ended well.

He hid his unease that she was so eager to reacquaint their relationship that his lies had just washed over her. For the first time in many long years, his heart had been touched again.

She was still talking. They had much to catch up on. Would he not be her guest at her apartment nearby?

The following morning, the curse that seemed to afflict his life had struck again. Ever since the fateful day his path had crossed that of the Professor it seemed somehow inevitable that anything he touched would turn to dross. So much for honesty being the best policy!

She had been right of course. Waking up in the warm apartment, the spring sunshine beaming through the windows, he had at last decided to make a clean break. Oh, he would have to offload Moriarty's empire, but there were others waiting to take his place. Others maybe much too willing and eager to take his place, but they were there. Could he trust them? Perhaps not, but he was in love. At last he had found a woman he could cherish, to pour affection on to; for too long his life had been cold, empty. The shadow of the Professor had grown long. Perhaps it was time to stop walking in the darkness.

Clearly he had been off-guard. Perhaps his experience of the past half decade had meant that he had overlooked how people would react when told that their lover had in fact been the means of their ruin. Either way, she had listened, face aghast, as he had told her that it had been he who had arranged the burglary of her house; that he had in fact been one of the raiding party. He had had to do it. He was in fear of his life.

Her anger had been not the blazing fury that he had so regularly experienced when others maintaining the Professor's legacy had fallen short of his exacting standards, but rather the cold desperation that showed that betrayal was the worst crime that any person could commit against another.

She had told him quietly to go. No further explanation, no further contact. No way back.

So there he found himself, walking again down Park Lane, watching the _beaux_ and _belles_ enjoying the early morning sunshine. The Park had been bursting into life, but he was dead inside. He had sat on the nearest bench and sank into a depression. It was his fault, of course it was. He resolved there and then never open himself up to anyone again. Never to be honest again. Always to hide his intentions. Always to hide his emotions.

Nearby a particularly vocal group had been laughing as they made their way along the path. One simpering woman had been speaking to one of the men, whom he later found to be Ronald Adair, who in turn was showing off in front of his friends. His prowess at the card table was unbeatable, he had boasted. Moran's ears had perked up. He knew his own prowess at the table was unbeatable. Here at least was a good opportunity to lose himself for a while.

He had gone over to the group, and introduced himself. And the rest, as they say, was history, wasn't it? The beginning of the end, as far as he was concerned. One step too far. But did he care? How was he to know that Holmes would be back? He just remembered the burning fury, the need to eradicate everything in his life that seemed to be against him.

His thoughts snapped back to the present; sitting on a wooden trestle in his cell, staring with unbelief at the newspaper article. She was dead. The love of his life, dead.

The great hunter cried uncontrollably.


	8. Chapter 8

Flashbacks done! We're back in 1919.

Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson and Moran belong to ACD.

**Chapter 7**

**Monday, August 18, 1919**

"And that, as far as the Duchess is concerned, is, I swear, the honest truth."

Moran finished his recounting of the events surrounding his dealings with the Duchess of Mortonwell, and sat back in the chair. He poured himself another brandy from the bottle on the table. Two empty pistols lay between them.

Holmes and Watson, sitting opposite him, glanced at each other. Watson was the first to speak.

"And you expect us to believe you? Poppycock."

"As you will, Doctor," smiled Moran, but it is the truth nonetheless. Holmes knows it, don't you, Holmes?"

Holmes was silent for a moment, before replying, "I believe you, Moran."

"Oh, come, Holmes!" protested Watson. "You cannot trust this man, surely? He had you in his sights at one point! I'll never forget the murderous look in your eyes, Moran, on that night in the house opposite."

"No doubt Mr Holmes would try to convince you that Bescott House is a front for all sorts of quackery, Doctor," continued Moran. "But I will have you know that it is no easy choice. The work they do is marvellous. In some ways I am a new man. I wanted to show you that, clearly, in a way that proved you could trust me. The guns were the only way I could think of. You couldn't know they were empty. You were at my mercy."

"Sorry, but even with all that, I'm just not that gullible. You're playing at something."

Moran sighed. "But won't you at least hear the rest of what I have to say?"

"Yes, we will," replied Holmes. "Pray, continue."

"I have spent my time at Bescott well, Mr Holmes, Doctor. As I said, it is marvellous what they do there. It is not the ... usual sort of Institution. I had access to newspapers, to magazines, to periodicals, to books; I had full access to their library. And I kept watch, as no doubt you did, Holmes. I kept watch on what happened to the Professor's empire. And I must admit I was surprised. It did not fall apart as I had suspected. I thought there would be a time of struggle whilst the more hot headed members fought amongst themselves before a leader emerged. No, it was all done very quickly. You could see the pattern in the news reports."

Holmes smiled. "Yes, I always find that the newspapers are a good way of gauging who is on top this week."

"Indeed. In fact, may I say, and without trying to ingratiate myself, I used your methods, Mr Holmes – although it was hard. The way you record the stories, Doctor, makes it hard to fathom Mr Holmes' true thought processes."

"Oh, for goodness' sake ...." spluttered Watson, before seeing the smile on Moran's face. _Surely_, he thought, _it couldn't be true, could it?_

"I followed the crime columns religiously, and I quickly saw that Clay had won. And true to your methods I saw his hand everywhere. Well, he is relatively reliable, I thought, if a little hot headed and heavy handed; the Professor would doubtless have been pleased that his work was being carried on by one such as he – just that little bit of madness past ruthless. And clever. Again, like the Professor, and like me in later days, usually always one step removed from the deed.

"And so it continued for a good few years. Years I say? Decades of course. I suppose I got used to confinement; my interest in crime waned, I found new interests, I was watched and supported; and the continued work of Bescott House was having an effect on me. Being removed from the front line of the his empire I was able once again to find a semblance of normality. I don't think I will ever be free of it completely - but who knows, maybe a time will come when I face the ultimate test."

He paused for a moment. "But all was as well as one could hope for, until earlier this year. I think I had convinced them that, despite my past, with their help I had enjoyed a recovery of normality; and although they had at intervals pressed me to have the operation, as time had gone by they did so less and less. I think they were finally coming to the conclusion that a natural cure had been effected. My outward mail was still censored, but the inward mail no longer. And then I received the letter."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair. "From ....?"

"The Professor."

"What?" exclaimed Watson. "How ...?"

"I was as surprised as you, Doctor," replied Moran. "But there it was, a letter from the Professor. It was inside another, which I will recount shortly. But when I saw it my blood ran cold. I was back there in Marylebone, standing in front of his desk again! Brought it all back, I can tell you!"

"What did it say?" pressed Holmes.

Moran paused, as if collecting his thoughts. "I have kept it. Here." He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. His hand shook as he passed it to Holmes, who got up and went over to the window to study it.

"The Professor's own headed paper, I see."

"Yes. From the date I would say he wrote this just before we departed for Austria."

"Do not speak of that!" said Holmes. Watson was surprised. "Bad memories, Watson," smiled Holmes. He read the letter aloud.

_Moran:_

_Holmes is closing in, and I have an instinct that the time of my end is near. He is quite resolute. He has ignored all my attempts to dissuade him of his course of action. It will be his undoing, but, I fear, mine too. _

_You are to continue, Moran; you and you alone. Show this letter to all who doubt or question. _

_I have one regret in my dealings with you. I want to set that straight. I saw how affected you were with the Duchess of Mortonwell. I appreciate the loyalty you subsequently showed me. I want to reward you for that loyalty. _

_The proceeds of the burglary were not disposed of in the usual manner. I have kept them safe. You will know where. 1837 A56._

_Reunite the Duchess with her goods, Moran. And don't let me down._

_M._

Holmes looked up from reading the letter. "It is dated a two weeks before Reichenbach," he said to Watson.

"Yes, but he never gave it to me," said Moran. "If I had received it, how different things would have been with her! And then there's this letter, which was in the same envelope." He handed over another sheet of paper which Holmes proceeded in like manner to the first, to read aloud.

_Where is it? We want it. We know where you are, and will be watching, so get in touch and we'll get hold of it. C._

"Short and to the point," said Holmes, passing the letter to Watson. "Mr Clay has lost none of his social skills in the intervening years. And an altogether poorer quality of paper – torn from a roll of newsprint, perhaps?"

"Very good, Mr Holmes," replied Moran. "John Clay is currently holding down a job at the _London Mail_."

"But why has he suddenly forwarded a letter from Moriarty to you at this time, and not before?" asked Watson.

Moran shrugged. "I honestly couldn't say. I hope to ask him one day. But you see the danger, Mr Holmes?"

"To you? Yes. I would be very worried if Clay and his associates were on my trail."

"Especially since I don't know where the booty is."

"However not?" asked Watson.

"I suppose the Professor was going to tell me – but never got round to it. I was in fact wondering whether the reason I never got this letter was that he thought better of it, and recanted of sending it; but now, somehow, it has turned up. Maybe in some of his old papers? Clay knew where everything was kept. And so I am now the hunted, Mr Holmes. I have the clue to where it is hidden but cannot decipher it. They think I know, but I do not."

Holmes smiled sardonically. "Ironic, Moran."

"They will hunt me down, Holmes, and not believe me when I tell them I do not know where it is. They will think I want it for myself. And so, you know what I am going to ask."

"Of course. You want me to help you find the proceeds of the robbery."

"Yes, and to return it to its rightful owner."

"She is dead, Moran."

Watson sighed at the insensitivity which Holmes showed, even in his advancing years. Some things would never change.

"I know, Holmes. But there is more to tell."

"I thought there might be. Tell on."

"In recent years I have seen a subtle change in the crime reports. Oh, Clay was still the man of the moment, he was still the one whose name was held in fear."

"I agree," said Holmes. "I noted no such change, though."

"With respect, I had had greater dealings with the man than you, Holmes. I started to see there was another hand, always in the shadows, but guiding him. It was as though his fingerprints were on a glove that someone else wore."

"You may be right. I'm thinking of the murder of Harold Foster – it was most unlike anything he had done before. Quite cold blooded."

"Harold Foster was one of his own men a few years ago, Mr Holmes. Harold Foster left Clay's 'employ' and they saw to it that he did not live to enjoy what little freedom he had. But that's not Clay. A beating, a whipping perhaps – but murder? Not in those circumstances."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"The Professor's empire is being run by another. Clay is a puppet. And they are expanding. Their webs are being woven across the city – across the country. Something big is happening, Holmes, little by little, so as not to draw attention to itself. But it is happening nonetheless. These are evil times, Holmes. I do not want to fall into their hands."

"The times were ever thus," replied Holmes, taking his seat again.

"The realisation of this finally broke me," continued Moran. "The letter brought it to a head. At that point I could see no way forward. So ...." He paused for a moment as though composing his thoughts. "So, I submitted to the procedure." He faced them and they saw a look in his eye that shocked them. "They say it has cured me, Holmes. In some ways it has. But – I hear them."

"Them?" asked Watson.

"All those who have suffered at my hand. Adair and the others. They cry out at me in my dreams. When I close my eyes they are there. They are with me now. Taunting, threatening, accusing."

He finally submitted to the emotions he had constrained the whole time he had been with them. He gasped in mental agony as he spoke. "Every minute of every day, Holmes! Shouting at me. Wailing. I have no peace. Even in sleep I have no peace. I thought the procedure would bring me peace. But it has made my life a living hell." Holmes and Watson looked at the old man with feelings of shock and horror at what they had heard.

He composed himself again. "So this is what is going to happen, Holmes. You are going to help me find the Duchess' things. You are going to keep me safe from Clay and his new master until that is done. Together we are going to return the goods to the Duchess' family - once we find them; or if not, the choice is yours. And then, when all that is done, I will discharge you from helping me. And at that point Mr Holmes, you will then kill me."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Holmes and Moran are creations of ACD.

**Chapter 8**

**Tuesday, August 19, 1919**

The dream again. Holmes fought to wake, but could not. He knew now that these were not dreams, but memories.

_He hears his father's voice. Shouting. Two voices shouting. Anger, threats. What 'broken promises'? _

_Then, a terrible scream echoes through his head. A noise, a terrible, final noise. The noise, he knows, of death. _

_Sickening, crunching blows. Stop, please stop!_

_Then, the sound of running feet._

_More shouting, another scream. This time, he knows, his mother's scream._

_He is under the bedclothes, the colours of his dream illuminating the darkness of his prison; clinging, holding him down. All is now silent, apart from the deep breathing from the next bed. The feeling of deep, unutterable horror grows cold in his stomach, weighs him down. He is drowning, drowning._

_He whispers, his voice labours as though his tongue is engorged. The air feels like treacle. His words sound hoarse as they finally escape from his lips._

"_What has happened?"_

_A voice he knows. "I fear the worst. Stay here."_

_Stockinged footsteps cross the bedroom, and the door creaks open. Then silence, for what seems like an eternity._

_At last - "Come quick!"_

_He is out of the bed, running downstairs, legs feel as though they are weighed with lead. He knows what he will find. It is as it always is in this dream. Yet it is not a dream._

_His parents lying on the threshold. So much blood._

_And standing there, on the path outside the front door, is a stranger. A man. His face is hidden, but he knows him, surely? _

_His brother does not struggle in the stranger's vice-like grip. The stranger is holding a gun to his brother's head._

_Their brotherly eyes meet, pupils wide. Now the gun is turned slowly – oh, so slowly - to point instead towards his own body. _

_The hidden face is always there at the back of his mind. He cannot see, he cannot see ..... Except, the mouth. A smile. Cruel and cold, and yet – another emotion. He cannot see. He cannot understand. What is the other emotion? Frustration burns within him._

_He hears the gun cocked as the stranger prepares to fire. Time has stopped; the hallway clock is silent._

_More screaming. It is his own._

_But the shot never comes. _

_Instead, the murderer's eyes seem to clear. At last he can see ... What does he see? A look of horror? Anger? Defiance?_

_And then, at last, after all these years, after all the dreams which stopped short, now at last he sees the face clearly._

_The assassin is gone, running into the darkness as the rest of the house is awakened. Running feet as the staff join the brothers. His elder, now holding him tightly._

_Tears. Many tears._

Holmes awoke. Moran was in the room, looking at him intently. Watson was just coming into the bedroom.

"Moriarty!" exclaimed Holmes. "Moriarty killed my parents!"


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, Moran and Clay are ACD's invented characters. Others are my own.

**Chapter 9**

**Tuesday August 19, 1919**

Holmes sat miserably at the table in the drawing room of 221B Baker Street. The first rays of morning sun were illuminating the still drawn curtains in the bay window. His hand shook slightly as he took a sip from the glass of brandy passed to him by Watson.

"Your arrival has been somewhat of an upset, Moran," he stated, "along with poor Wiggins' death last night as well. I have never known the dream to occur so regularly. But to see his face again after all these years. So clearly. And to know he was responsible for our parents' deaths ... at last I understand, the dreams were just memories I have pushed to the deepest parts of my mind. Blanked them out. But truth will out ..."

Moran quietly apologised, but Holmes waved his words aside with apparent contempt.

"And anyway - what were you doing in my room? We agreed Watson would stay up for that part of the night to ensure no harm was done – either to you or by you."

"Watson fell asleep. I dozed, and then heard you calling. As I told you last night, these days I do not sleep well. I was merely concerned for you."

"Sorry, old man," added Watson. "It was a long day, coming up from the country, lots of running around – that awful Wiggins business. Spirit willing and all that."

"Well, no harm is done," continued Holmes more patiently, "and I suppose you have again shown that your present behaviour is indicative of a change in you, Moran."

Moran sighed. "After this long, Holmes, I suppose I am starting to hope I can be accepted for what I am, not what I was."

Holmes glanced at him from beneath furrowed brows, as though weighing his words. Watson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and took a sip of brandy himself, before breaking the resulting silence. "Where do we go from here, Holmes?"

"That's easy," interrupted Moran. "We find the stolen goods."

"No!" exclaimed Holmes. "That will not do!"

"Why ever not?" asked Watson.

Holmes was clearly recovering from his disturbed night. "Because, if Moran's story is accurate, then the natural extension to be drawn from it is that his movements will be watched by Clay and other members of the gang. Hence any move we make will be reported and the likelihood is that we would be relieved of whatever we found almost as soon as we gained access to it. We are going to have to be clever in our planning in order to succeed."

Moran was at the window, carefully peering through the curtains in the growing early morning light. "I see no movement on the street. I think it is safe for me to leave – I am assuming you do not wish me to stay longer with you than necessary?"

"I think," said Holmes carefully, "that, assuming you were not followed here last night, it should not become known that we have met in this way. By those means we can make progress with maximum safety to all parties. We are none of us as young as we once were, and we are going to have to rely on our brains rather than brawn to get though this. So, indeed, Moran, I think it is best you leave us now; doubtless you have planned some bolt hole you can retire to, for otherwise I doubt if you would have even succeeded in making your way here to us last night!"

"It shall be as you say, Holmes," replied Moran, "and thank you for listening to me. I will advise you of my whereabouts by telegram as soon as I know I am safely homed. I will make such domestic arrangements for me not to have to venture out once I am safely indoors."

"Very well," said Holmes, "we will bid you good day, and await news of your safe passage. And, Moran ..." - at this point he met Moran's gaze and held it - "if for one moment I think you are being less than honest with me, I will not hesitate to make your situation known to the authorities."

"I would not expect otherwise," replied Moran. Within a few moments he was gone, taking care the street was clear and well before the hustle and bustle of the city. Holmes and Watson were left alone to reflect on the unexpected events of the previous evening.

"Our police watchers will have seen him come and go, of course – and it worries me he is losing his hunter's touch so much that he did not see them! But - what a business, eh, Watson?" Holmes was suddenly quite animated.

"Indeed," replied his friend. "What part, exactly, of what business, then ...?"

Holmes laughed. "Some things never change, do they, Watson?" he replied. "And I hope they never do. Make sure you never change, Watson!"

"Too late for that now!" said Watson. "So ...?"

"Oh, yes. Well, the location of the robbery proceeds is quite clear, of course."

"No it isn't. Well, not to me."

"_1837 A56_. That was the code, my dear fellow. Two parts. The first is easy. Written two weeks before Reichenbach, in his final preparations for Austria. If I know the Professor he was planning how the journey would be undertaken, although in the event it was somewhat different of course. But if you were planning on making a trip to the continent, what would you do?"

"Boat train. Without a doubt."

"Exactly. Which leaves from ...?"

"Victoria Station." Watson paused for a moment, as Holmes smiled. Then - "Ah! I have it – 1837 is the year of the late Queen's accession. 1837 refers to Victoria Station."

"Well done, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes. "There is hope for you yet! Now the other part, we know of course that every major station in London has 'left luggage' facilities, many with lock-up safes. They are arranged in rows and columns along a wall. '_A_' refers to the row and '_56_' to the column. So the code refers to left luggage locker A56 at Victoria Station. Simple."

"So simple, in fact, that I wonder why Moran did not work it out. Or Clay."

"Exactly the point in question," replied Holmes, becoming more thoughtful. "It is a very easy cipher. I cannot envisage Moran needing my help to locate it. Unless ...." Holmes now had so much energy that he almost leaped from his seat, and started to rummage through some of the old folders which had been the subject of his attention the previous day. "Something caught my eye yesterday – let me see – ah! There!" He passed a faded newspaper cutting from the folder to Watson, whose face lit up as he read it.

"No wonder he needs our help, then!" he exclaimed. "The left luggage section of Victoria Station was redeveloped in 1907. The lockers were moved, lock stock and barrel, to the vaults of the Metropolitan Bank in Edgeware Road. He's not going to be able to get at those very easily."

"Precisely, Watson. With Moran's personal history it is not the sort of thing he could easily do – walk into a Bank and ask for the contents of someone else's secure locker. Nor Clay with his background. So he does need us after all ...." His voice trailed off in thought. "There is still something he has not told us, you know."

Watson smiled. "Bearing in mind that this time yesterday we were down in Sussex with no plans for you to return to London, I think there is very likely much that is still missing from the jigsaw, Holmes."

Holmes continued, almost to himself. "And where does Wiggins fit into all this? Does he at all?"

"Well," said Watson, "I know one thing we're going to have to do before we go any further," and he rang for breakfast.

Within a few minutes Violet Harrison brought the food to them – as Watson was used to describing it, 'good old fashioned English fare'. Holmes thanked her, and then asked about Emma.

"I knew her from school," she replied. "Her and I met up again a couple of weeks ago and hit it off straight away – just like old schooldays again! She's had a hard time; she was orphaned at a young age, even before school, and even then I took to taking her under my wing, if you understand. She used to get picked on by the other girls. But then of course we went our separate ways, so it was good to see her again. She was looked after by her aunt, I think, in Kent, and managed an education – but now she's back in London and looking for work. I've been helping her with some of my contacts, a couple of the big houses looking out over Hyde Park and so on. People I met at Oxford. No luck yet, but I'm sure she'll find something soon enough. I paid her two shillings to mind the house last night."

"This aunt," said Holmes, "did she anything of her?"

"No, Mr Holmes," she replied. "Just said that she went to give with her in Tenterden. Kind enough to her, but not a parent, of course."

"Anything about her parents?"

"No, they died when she was very young – too young to remember them – and then she spent time in the Orphanage on the Old Kent Road. She was there when I met her at school the first time. Then this aunt appears, when she's about eleven, and the rest is as I have said."

"Thank you," said Holmes, and she left. They set to their breakfast with vigour, and did not speak for a full ten minutes; however Holmes seemed preoccupied. At last they sat back from the table.

"Almost to Mrs Hudson's standards!" said Holmes. "So, now, a pipe, I think, and then tell me what you think about Miss Emma."

This caught Watson unaware. "Miss Emma? Well, she was pleasant enough," he said at last. "Doesn't seem the most natural friend for Miss Violet, not from her class if you understand me, but then again, old school friends and all that, if I met up with someone from my schooldays there would be a natural affection still remaining, even if we were of different types now. She was efficient enough last night, although her cooking was not up to Miss Violet's standards. But she was not intrusive last night – although she did let Moran in. But that's partly our fault for not making her – or Miss Violet – aware of our present situation. No, I thought after she left that all in all she would be welcome again."

Holmes was watching Watson with a smile as he recounted his views. "Nothing more, Watson?"

Watson thought for a moment. He knew Holmes, and knew he had missed something – something obvious to Holmes, but obscure to him. "No, that is all. What did you see, then?"

"I will keep my powder dry for the moment," replied Holmes. "Let us just say that Miss Emma may be of some use to us in our situation with Moran."

"How so? I can't see it."

"Let it rest for now, Watson. So, we are done here, shall we see what there is to be seen from the newspaper?"

"Subtle as ever, Holmes!" laughed Watson. "I shall be a few minutes."

Half of the front page was taken up with latest developments in the case of Wiggins' murder. Holmes sighed as he read it, before tossing the paper across the table into Watson's lap. "Lestrade is no better than his father," he snorted. "Missed some fairly obvious stuff. But that is to be expected. And of course he may be following my advice." Watson looked at him quizzically. "Keeping his powder dry, Watson. Not everything you know needs to end up in the press. Sometimes it is useful to give the impression you are struggling to make headway. It just makes it difficult, of course, knowing whether it is just a front. First stop, Scotland Yard I think." And with that he was on his feet, grabbed his coat and was out of the door; Watson followed as quickly as he could.

* * *

Adam Lestrade greeted them and invited them into his office. In response to Holmes' questions he advised that he was confident that progress was being made. Already one name was coming to the fore as a suspect.

"Bingelow is a nasty piece of work," he continued. "Thrown out of the Navy, tried to sign up for the Great War and then threw a riot when he was refused. Spent time in Newgate Jail last year. A known thug. And a known blackmailer and extortioner."

"A thoroughly pleasant fellow, then," replied Holmes thoughtfully. "Do you know of his connections?"

"He is known to associate with other felons in the East End," replied the policeman. "A nasty case last year where he was getting 'protection money' as they call it from a local shopkeeper. Trussed him up and beat him. Fits the pattern for Wiggins exactly."

"Well, not exactly," said Holmes. "A beating is one thing, murder is entirely something else."

"We have been noticing, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, and he lowered his voice as though the walls may have been listening to his words, "we have been noticing that the level of violence in crimes has been increasing recently. We've put it down to the War, or an after effect of the Pandemic. But the violence is greater now than at any time since the King came to the throne."

Holmes leaned forward. "Can you suggest a date from when this started?"

"Well, not really, sir," replied Lestrade. "It's the sort of thing that creeps up on you. But if you care to have a look back through the old files, I'm sure you'll find plenty of evidence to satisfy you. I'm sorry, but I can't allocate anyone to help you. I'll give you a chair, though."

"Enough of your cheek to an old man, young Lestrade!" smiled Holmes. "But I will take up your offer. A thought has occurred to me, supported by something a friend said earlier today. I need to start looking at the patterns, Lestrade. Order out of chaos. I can guarantee that there will be an underlying pattern to all this. You may be right that the murderer is this Bingelow fellow – but I can also assure you that unless you see the pattern, you will be fighting a losing battle. He is just a pawn in the game. He's being used. A tool in someone else's hand."

Holmes and Watson were duly escorted to the strongroom, which held records of the crimes dealt with by the Station. Holmes was in his element, his face shining with excitement as he worked his way through the paperwork. Every so often he made an exclamation, or wrote in his notebook.

Lunch came and went, and teatime as well. Watson was growing tired, helping Holmes with replacing files he had viewed, and getting new ones from the shelves. Despite what Holmes had said to Lestrade, to Watson there seemed to be no pattern at all to what Holmes was doing – the files he was calling upon were apparently random, although Watson started to note as the day progressed that the geographical area the crimes were committed in seemed to be narrowing.

At last Holmes stood, with a broad smile on his face. "Ah, that was good!" he proclaimed. "It is many a year since the brain has had such a workout!"

"And the result, Holmes?"

"Let us first return to Baker Street."

This they did, Holmes reporting to Lestrade that the search had not been as successful as he had hoped, but that he would be in touch again shortly with more information. It was gone eight o'clock in the evening before the two were back in Baker Street. After Miss Harrison had brought tea, Holmes lit his pipe and sat back in his chair.

"Doubtless the killer was Bingelow," he stated. "The tobacco we found at the scene was one a sailor would be well familiar with. No, I think Lestrade has got his man. Wiggins was having to pay 'protection money' to run his shop without harm coming to him. But there's more than that.

"Bingelow was almost certainly part of Clay's gang. These sorts of people do not act alone. And Moran has already said that Clay controls the Professor's former empire."

"So we have the connection, then! That's good. We can get Clay as well as Bingelow. Two birds with one stone."

"No, Watson, Clay will ensure his hands are clean. But I was going to continue and say that it doesn't match Clay either – he's ruthless, but this was an execution. It was as much a warning to other members of the gang, including Clay, than it was to Wiggins."

Watson whistled. "So Moran was right again, then?"

"It appears so, Watson. I fear the murder of Wiggins is just an unfortunate distraction from the main order of business."

"Holmes, this is a friend we are talking about."

"I'm sorry, Watson, I know you find my phrasing a little unsympathetic at times, but in my line of work I have to disengage my personal feelings from my work."

"When it suits, yes. You don't always find it so easy."

"True. But in this case I can say that, by doing so, I may be able to lead Lestrade to a bigger catch. The person behind Clay. The true mind of the Professor's empire."

"You know who it is?"

"I have my suspicions. But my suspicions are not often wrong."

"Norbury," said Watson with a smile.

"Yes, well done, Watson," replied Holmes with a little impatience. "But I think I am on the right lines. I believe that Moran has been mislead."

"How so?"

"I do not think that Mary, Duchess of Mortonwell is dead. And as a result, he – and us, if the link with him is ever found out - are in the greatest danger."


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: all major characters belong to ACD

**Chapter 10**

**September to November, 1919**

The funeral of Wiggins was a sad affair. Apart from Holmes and Watson, only two other people attended – stall holders who traded from premises next to Wiggins. They seemed ill at ease to be present, and the vicar likewise; and when the service was over and the body interred in the quiet St Margaret's Cemetery, they quickly took their leave without a word to Holmes and Watson.

Holmes stayed in 221B Baker Street for a few days after the funeral, and then one morning announced to Watson that he was going away for a few days.

"How long?"

"My dear Watson, I have no idea. But I will rejoin you soon; and then we shall, I think, return to Sussex. The events of the past few weeks have been somewhat unsettling, and my bees are calling!"

Watson laughed. "Sometimes I think that you're married to them, the way you go on about them!"

"They keep me sane, Watson," replied Holmes. "Not for them the undoing of criminal plots, the uncovering of felons and the arrest of wrongdoers. For them it is – obey the queen! Collect nectar! Nurture the children!"

"I will mind 221B until you return, old friend, but I wish you would tell me where you were going."

"Alas I cannot – not at this time," replied Holmes. "But rest assured that if it were possible for you to attend me, I would ask. You're going to have to trust me on this."

"Well, I do of course, but I would like to know at least the outline. It is this Moran business, isn't it?"

Holmes was silent for a moment. "Yes, it is – but that is all I can tell!" he then exclaimed, and removed to his room to pack a small case.

Watson called through the door to him. "Remember what he said, Holmes! Have a care!"

Holmes looked at him quizzically. "What he said..?"

"In his account of meeting the Duchess again. His vow. 'Never to trust again. Never to be honest again. Always to hide is feelings.' Those sorts of things."

Holmes dismissed his concerns. "Heat of the moment, Watson, that's all. From what I saw of him, there has been a change, you cannot deny."

"I agree there appears to have been a change. But it might just be that he has learned to disguise his emotions and intentions very well. Remember that he was able to obtain his release from Bescott. Few have done so, even after surgery."

"Thank you for your concern, _Doctor_," replied Holmes, with perhaps a little to much emphasis on the last word. "I am sure that if my reading of our ... friend ... is wrong, that you will record as much in your account."

"Indeed I will, Holmes," replied Watson, becoming testy in his turn. "I just hope and pray the account will not also record the demise of the great detective."

With other similar words Holmes and Watson continued for some time, but Holmes was not to be diverted from his task. Early the next morning Watson woke to find his friend gone, with a small note left on the table.

_Have no fear, Watson. Trust me, it is for the best in the long term. Holmes._

Watson knew too well what was going on. Doubtless Holmes was meeting Moran – but to what end? What were they planning? He didn't even know where Moran was hiding, so couldn't go and help his friend if anything went wrong.

Part of a pattern, he thought. Since they had arrived in London, and especially since the meeting with Moran, Holmes had become more distant than Watson had ever known him to be in their long years of acquaintance. It had been a slow process, over many days; but there was obviously something deeply troubling Holmes, that he could not share with Watson; the dreams, perhaps? The shock on Holmes' face as he awoke from the dream was still clear in his memory – or was it the shock of waking up to find Moran in his room?

A day became days. Days became a week. Then another. Watson was never free of the unsettling feeling, the worry that Holmes could be in danger and he was unable to help. Every day he scoured the newspapers for news that could be interpreted as being the work of his friend, but to no avail. On a couple of occasions he even paid a visit, late in the evening, to Adam Lestrade, but the policeman was silent as to the whereabouts of Holmes. The gnawing worry slowly grew until it was a shadow over Watson's every waking hour.

And then, late one very wet early October evening, Watson at last heard the familiar steps on the staircase. The door flew open and Holmes stood there, soaked to the skin; but Watson gasped at his appearance. Filthy dirty, his clothes were ragged, and a full beard framed his haggard face. Only his eyes blazed with the usual power of his personality. The two embraced.

"All is well, Watson, all is well!" exclaimed Holmes. "But first, I beg of you, before any questions – a bath!"

It was almost midnight before Holmes emerged from the bathroom, clean shaven and robed. He sat down with a sigh into his familiar chair and smiled at Watson.

"What a time I have had, Watson!" he said. "So much has happened since we parted. But, you see, I am true to my word. I am safe and sound, back with you; and tomorrow we leave for Sussex. But since you will not give me any more rest before I have told you what I have been up to, I will give a brief exposition of my actions these last five weeks.

"You were correct of course; I started with Moran. There were a number of issues he and I had to resolve, and I can safely say they have been so, to my satisfaction, if not to his. I specifically advised him that I was not going to resort to murder to assist him in his mental struggle – I am sorry for him, but I am not stooping to that. 'Then you will kill me', indeed. How melodramatic.

"But my main business has been getting to the bottom of the business with Wiggins. And there I have had a degree of success, although it will be a longer drawn out affair to bring it to a successful conclusion. The pieces are in place, but the time is not right for some of them. I think you will find that the most interesting thing about the whole affair is that Wiggins himself was not the one being punished. As I thought, there is 'protection money' involved, and Wiggins is part of the small group of traders who are being extorted thus; but he was up to date with his payments. No, it was a fellow named Davis who had fallen behind. You would know him by sight, I am sure; he was there at Wiggins' funeral. No, our friend Wiggins was killed as a warning to the others. Which is an interesting – and revealing – insight into the mind of the one who controls Moriarty's empire."

"Clay always was a nasty piece of work. Making himself out to be some prince or other. That time in the vault where you apprehended him, telling people not to touch him with their grubby hands! I'll wager he's just the same now, pushing his weight around. Well, I hope you've been able to cut him down to size."

"Not exactly, Watson," smiled Holmes. "As I say, things are moving to a conclusion at the right time. A little while yet.

"But the pattern is interesting. Foster was killed as a warning to others not to try and leave. Wiggins as a warning to others to keep up their payments. The targets always seem to be those who are close to those who have carried out a misdemeanour. And that, of course, makes me very worried."

"Why ever so?"

"Because I have played a very powerful card. I have revealed to the ones in charge of Moriarty's empire that I am on to them. I have already taken some actions which have caused them some inconvenience. And that is the reason why we must leave for Sussex, my friend."

"I'm still not quite catching on, Holmes. It is late, after all."

"If they follow the pattern, they will punish me by punishing someone who means much to me."

"Ah. I see."

"So pack your bags, Watson, we are heading for the country."

* * *

Two weeks had passed in the quiet farmhouse when the news they had been dreading reached them. The morning paper told how an attempt had been made to burn down 221 Baker Street. Some minor damage had been caused, but the landlady had escaped and was currently staying with an elderly aunt.

"Miss Violet got out alright, then," sighed Watson with relief.

"Yes. This is not unexpected. You see what I was talking about? You see how they are seeking to hurt me through others?"

"Even dear old 221B, eh?" smiled Watson.

"Bricks and mortar, Watson," laughed Holmes. "That is easy to fix. And I had of course advised Miss Violet to be on her guard."

"You are almost talking as though you let it happen."

"To an extent, I did. I keep telling you, Watson – 'keep your powder dry'. It is most important that our opponents think they have the upper hand, think that we were caught off guard, think that we are on the run."

"And I suppose, knowing you, that nothing is further from the truth."

"Of course. But it is the start of the end."

"That sounds ominous."

Holmes shot him a glance. "It is, Watson. They are following a path for them that I have laid. It is rather predictable, although the setting up was most exhausting. No, I think a few more weeks should bring matters to a head. I expect to see a significant development reported in the papers shortly – and that will put the wheels in motion." He rubbed his hands, almost gleefully, almost childlike. "Ah, the thrill of the chase, Watson!"

Watson smiled at his friend. "I really don't know where you get the energy from, Holmes! It is most unfair!"

"You carry wounds, physical and mental, with you, Watson, that I have never carried. You have had the joy of marriage, but also the searing loss of your partner. But I must admit, those weeks away were hard work. I try to fight it, Watson, but I think neither of us are getting any younger."

"Your brain is a s sharp as it always was, though!" laughed Watson. "Come, will you not tell me what lies ahead? Your great plan?"

"No, Watson," said Holmes. "There is too much at stake. I hope, one day, that it will become clear, and that the events necessary to end this evil will drive themselves to their natural conclusion. You will have to trust me on this."

"Again? That's all I seem to be doing these days. Trust me, trust me. I wish you would open up a bit, old man."

Holmes sighed. "I can't, Watson. What if I told you, and then by some means, unlikely as it is, they got hold of you?"

"I wouldn't tell."

"Of course you wouldn't. But I would not want you to have to face that test."

He would have no more of it, and the matter was soon forgotten as the days passed from autumn into early winter. Then one foggy November morning, Watson arrived back from the village shop with the morning's paper, his face white and hands shaking. He was barely articulate. He threw the paper onto the table in front of Holmes.

"I told you! I told you!"

Holmes calmly took the paper, and read the lead article.

_**BILLINGSGATE MURDER**_

_**SENSATIONAL ADMISSION BY CRIMINAL**_

_**COLLAPSE OF TRIAL**_

_**FORMER COLONEL IMPLICATED IN WIGGINS CASE**_

_In an amazing development at the Old Bailey yesterday, Michael Binglelow, on trial for the murder of the trader Robert Wiggins, was sensationally released upon the testimony of Inspector Collins of Scotland Yard, who revealed that they were now hunting a former resident of Bescott House, the Government's rehabilitation institution. Sebastian Moran was released earlier this summer but has disappeared since that time._

_Whilst admitting to being a member of the notorious Clay Street Fellowship, Binglelow said to reporters that he was innocent of any blood and knew that Moran was the brains behind the murder, and in fact of the whole criminal operation of which Wiggins was a victim ...._

Holmes sighed. "So, Moran plays his card, then."

"I _told you_ he was not to be trusted! And to think he was in our rooms! _YOU_ let him stay. You trusted him."

"Now, Watson, calm yourself."

"I will not. You play a dangerous game, Holmes! What if he had decided to exact his revenge on you whilst he was staying with us? Did you not think for one moment to be careful?"

"But of course. I knew what I was doing. Sometimes you have to give someone the benefit of the doubt."

"Oh, come, Holmes. There is no doubt. It's as plain as the nose on your face that he's guilty. He hasn't changed."

"I'm going to say it again, Watson. Trust me."

"I can't, I'm afraid. I really think you've lost it this time, Holmes. You had Binglelow nailed. You yourself said to me, 'doubtless'. You even pinned it on the tobacco – you, a world expert in the stuff. And now he's walked free."

"I don't have to explain my actions to you, Watson. Consider for a moment all that I have said to you regarding this matter, and then form your own conclusions. But what I have set in motion will work its way through to a conclusion, whatever you may think."

Watson sighed in resignation. "Have it your own way. I should know by now that you know far more than you let on about. I don't know why I bother sometimes. But Holmes, mark my words – if you're not careful, this will be the death of you. Have a care."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: main characters are the creation of ACD. O'Connor is mine. Again, keep tabs on the dates.

**Chapter 11**

**2nd October 1919**

The tall Irishman stood uncomfortably before John Clay. Clay was slumped in a chair, the only chair in the room on the second floor above the shop. He toyed listlessly with a fencing foil.

"They tell me you have served the Fellowship well since you joined us, O'Connor," Clay said.

"I does my best, sir," replied O'Connor. He shifted his weight – what there was of it – from one foot to the other, repeatedly.

"And I understand you have something to tell me?" Clay was doing his best to be patient but the Irishman's slowness, and continual movement, was jarring.

"That I do, yes, I do."

"Well?"

"Ah, right you are, then. Well, it's about Mr Moran isn't it?"

"You know where he is?"

"That I do not. No. But I know who he has seen."

Clay sighed. "And that would be ...?"

"Sherlock Holmes, sir."

Clay sat forward in his chair, running his finger absent mindedly along the blade of the foil. "Ah. So Holmes is involved. She will be pleased."

"She, sir?"

"Never mind. So what can you tell us about this meeting?"

"It was a little while back, sir. Just after Mr Moran came out of jail. Back in August."

"So why has it taken this long for you to tell me about it?"

"I didn't know whether you'd be interested, sir. It was only last evening when you mentioned him that I thought it might be important, like. And then I saw him the other day when I was out, getting ready for the Piccadilly job, and there he was, all shifty like, not wanting to be seen. But I knows him from old, yes I do. And now that I've seen him again, and knowing how you're interested I thought you'd best know."

"You know him from before? How?"

"India sir. I served in his company for a time. Fierce angry fellow he was even then sir, and I don't think time has calmed him."

"Did he recognise you?"

"Oh yes, sir, on the grounds that I introduced myself to him this time round."

Another sigh from Clay. "Look, O'Connor, I'm sure you know what you're doing, but you need to keep focus on the job in hand – not getting back with old service colleagues, however nice and dandy that may be."

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. Only, he mentioned you, you see."

Clay paused again. "He mentioned me? In what context?"

"He said that he had received a message from you a while back, and had been thinking about it. 'It's been on my mind', he said, two or three times. Fierce troubled he is, I think."

"Yes, yes, I've gathered that."

"And so he says, 'tell John' – sorry sir, but those were his exact words, not mine – 'tell John I want to see him. I want to work with him. I want to join him. We can be great again, together'. That's it, really, he rushed off in a hurry then, there being a copper on the other side of the road, you know."

John Clay was silent for a moment, turning this news over in his mind. "So," he mused, half to himself, "he has tired already. I wonder what he considers to be 'working with me' to be?"

"Well, he did used to be the leader," said a heavily built man standing next to Clay.

"Yes, but he isn't now, is he, Wilkins?" spat Clay. In a flash the foil was at Wilkins' throat. "Just remember who runs things now."

"No offence, sir, no offence." Wilkins backed off. Clay turned again to O'Connor. "No indication of what he meant?"

"Just that he wanted to meet, sir."

"Thank you, O'Connor, that's useful. I think in his old age our friend has started to get soft. So, he wants to join us – doubtless to save his neck."

"He has something you want, then?" asked the Irishman.

Clay glanced at him, suddenly suspicious. "Yes, he has. Why do you say that?" The blade twitched in his hand.

"No reason, sir," said O'Connor, the nerves in his voice betraying his concern. "It just seems, you know, that him wanting to get back, and having left things a while, and this note, whatever it is, maybe he's worried about how you might receive him. You know, the old leader and the new."

"I can deal with Mr Moran," replied Clay coldly. "But you – you seem to be doing a lot of thinking. That's not what I need from you. I need cunning, not thinking."

"Ah, cunning I am, sir," replied O'Connor. "I'll just keep to the cunning, then."

"Yes. Very well, you can go." Clay turned to Wilkins as O'Connor moved towards the door. "If we can get Moran onside, then we might be able to get Holmes as well. They've obviously met, although why Moran didn't just kill him I don't know. He's definitely getting too soft. But we need that information."

"Do we tell her?"

"No, not yet. All in good time. If we tell her now, she'll want to move against Holmes straight away, just to clear things up. She does have a score to settle, I understand. And then it would get messy. You know what she's like, what with Wiggins and Foster. We'd get diverted away from the game in hand, going after that Watson fellow just to make Holmes suffer. No, that can wait. I'll put word out on the street for Moran, that he'll be safe to come here. Let's hear what he's got to say."

The door closed as O'Connor left the room. Once he had left the building and was a couple of streets away, he seemed to straighten and grow in height.

A smile crossed the face of Sherlock Holmes. It was all going to plan.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: major characters belong to ACD.

**Chapter 12**

**November 1919 to January 1920**

Watson went back to his flat in London shortly afterwards, and the rest of the autumn passed without further incident. Through November and into December, gradually the feeling of unease that had haunted Watson since the meeting with Moran back in August, lifted and he almost started to dare hope that things would resolve themselves without any further involvement on his part – or that of Holmes, for that matter.

Holmes came up to London at Christmas, and they spent an enjoyable few days together. The redecoration of 221B after the arson attempt was completed, and rendered habitable just in time for new year. Holmes was most upset that his 'work of art' – the bullet holes forming the initials 'VR' formed in the wall of the lounge – had been plastered over as part of the repairs; and some of the colours chosen for the room by Miss Harrison did not meet with his favour. But all in all, new year saw the two of them welcoming in 1920 with Miss Harrison and her friend Emma, who had also come to stay over the holiday. She appeared to be the only one amongst them who appeared ill at ease – but as the first week of January drew to a close, she returned to her own place and Holmes to Sussex.

Watson stayed over at 221B for a few nights, arranging things back as he knew Holmes would prefer, and then made ready to leave. But that very morning, the 18th, Miss Harrison knocked on the door with a telegram. The Sussex postmark bore witness to a communication from Holmes. Watson smiled to himself – Holmes still preferred the old fashioned telegram over picking up the telephone. Not that he was by any means a luddite – it was just that Watson remembered the first time Holmes had used the new instrument after it had been installed in the hallway of 221B. The call was from Lestrade 'Senior', who even to that day still commented about his hearing being permanently damaged by Holmes' bellowing into the mouthpiece. Thereafter Holmes seemed to have a love-hate relationship with the thing.

Watson opened the telegram, the sense of dread that had been so mercifully absent now rising again.

_WATSON - STOP - THINGS ARE MOVING - STOP - MAKE 221B READY - STOP - WE ARE SUMMONED - STOP - WILL EXPLAIN ALL ON ARRIVAL - STOP - HOLMES_

Watson raised one eyebrow quizzically. Summoned? By whom? Moran? He looked around the familiar surroundings, now arranged in a way that he knew Holmes would approve. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. _Probably a 2pm arrival,_ he thought, looking at the postage time of the _telegram. Just time for lunch._

Holmes' familiar voice welcoming Miss Harrison duly announced his arrival shortly after two that afternoon. The man himself was soon sitting in his favoured chair, admiring Watson's work in the room.

"Very well done, Watson," he said. "You have been busy. I approve."

"Thank you," smiled Watson. "So what is this summons? Moran?"

"No, I regret it is not," said Holmes, slowly.

"Regret?"

"Yes, regret. I had assumed that matters I had set in motion would result in a communication from him. On the contrary, the summons is from Clay."

"_Clay!_"

"Hmmm. And that has taken me somewhat by surprise." He got up and walked over to the window, and looked out over the bustling street. "But, no matter, it is all working towards the same conclusion, and of that I have absolutely no doubt."

"And this all hinges on your unmoveable conviction that Moran is trustworthy, I suppose?"

"It does."

Watson knew better than to continue the argument. "So what have you been doing in Sussex? And how did Clay find out where you lived, to be able to issue this ... summons?"

Holmes flashed a sideways glance and retook his seat. "I have been busy, waiting. It is a discipline to which I am well accustomed. And as for the summons, it was received through young Lestrade. He forwarded it to me."

"Hold on. You're saying Clay communicated with you through Lestrade..?" Watson was trying to get his mind around the twists and turns of who was talking to whom, when, and how.

"Oh yes. But, as you would expect, not in a conventional way. You remember Bingelow?"

"Clay's thug who said Moran had done all the planning for those murders – just as I told you he had?" Watson couldn't resist the righteous 'dig' at his friend. "Of course."

"He was found dead this morning, down at the East India Dock. There was a message left in one of his pockets. _GET HOLMES TO MEET CLAY. HE WILL KNOW HOW AND WHERE._"

Watson sighed. "So, Moran is really taking control, isn't he. Now he is getting rid of Clay's inner circle. I don't like it, Holmes." He got up and walked over to the dining table, picking up a copy of the day's newspaper. "I've been looking every day for coded news of what Clay or Moran is up to."

"And what have you found?"

"Confound it, you know full well I have found nothing, Holmes! I barely know what to look for! For all I know I could be looking at it now and wouldn't recognise it!"

"Precisely, my old friend," replied Holmes softly. "So stop worrying about looking for signs. They are there, if, as you say, one knows what one is looking for. There is a battle going on, my dear Watson, a battle for the soul of London, England even."

"And who will win?" asked Watson. "After four years of war, everyone surely must be tired of all this fighting and warring?"

"Clearly not. And you forget that even through the unhappy years we have just passed through, our criminal friends did not put aside their aspirations for personal gain at the expense of others. Oh, no, Watson, they have not been resting, and I can tell you that even now the leader of this Clay Street Fellowship – what a superb act of pride, absolutely typical of the arrogance of Clay – is seeing their carefully laid plans starting to come apart. They need to act, quickly, and hence the summons."

"Do you know where we are summoned to?"

"Oh, I am so glad you say 'we', Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, "for it is indeed we who must attend to this matter. I will need you like never before, my friend; there is a part in this affair that only you can play."

"Which is ..."

Holmes paused for a moment. "Trust me, Watson .."

Watson smiled. "I know you well enough to know that that is the end of the conversation, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Very well. So let's get planning then. I'm at your disposal. Just – be careful, won't you?"

"Am I ever not careful, Watson?"

"There really is no answer to that, Holmes!"

* * *

The morning of the 19th dawned frosty and fair. The mist lay over the River Thames until breakfast time, and then dispersed to offer an unseasonably mild winter's day. At ten o'clock the telephone rang in the hallway, and a few moments later Miss Harrison opened the door to tell them that Lestrade was calling. Holmes sent Watson to speak to him.

"Morning, Lestrade."

"Good morning, Doctor. It's going to be a nice one, I think."

"Come, on, man, less of the weather lore. What is it?"

"A message for Holmes."

"He has asked me to take the call."

"Very well. It was received at our Epping Forest police house just a few minutes ago. It reads, MESSAGE FOR HOLMES. HE KNOWS WHERE. TWELVE NOON. That's the whole message."

"Thank you, Lestrade, I will tell him. Could I ask – was the caller a man or a woman?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just asking."

"It was a woman."

"Ah. Right then. Goodbye, Lestrade."

Watson conveyed the message to Holmes, who sat quietly for some minutes. The suddenly all was action.

"The Metropolitan Bank, Edgeware Road. That is where we are to meet them, at twelve. Clearly we are to retrieve the contents of Moriarty's safety deposit box."

"How are we to do that, Holmes? The man is dead, has been for almost thirty years. We can't just walk in and ask for it."

Holmes rubbed his hands with childlike glee. "I know! Exciting, isn't it? I wonder how that has been worked out? But there's only one way to find out. Come!" He turned for the door, and then as Watson started to follow, turned back. "Your old service companion, Watson?"

Watson patted the breast pocket of the jacket he had put on. "You know how careful I am in these matters, Holmes. Fully loaded."

"Good. Let us be gone, then."

Holmes seemed to make quite a big event of leaving 221B. He called a passing cab loudly, and fairly shouted the destination above the noise of the traffic in the busy street. They settled themselves into the seats and spoke no words as they were driven the mile or so to the Metropolitan Bank.

On arrival Holmes waited for Watson to pay the fare, and then drew him aside at the foot of the steps up to the building. He spoke quietly and urgently.

"I really have no clear idea about what we will find here, Watson, but please, please do nothing to alarm or upset our – compatriots. They have come here with a job to do, all of them, and to some extent we must let matters play themselves out. But all will be well, Watson, please believe me in that."

"You almost make it sound like goodbye, Holmes," said Watson, trying to sound light-hearted but in truth almost shaking with fear, or excitement.

Holmes met his eye steadily. "Come, let us get on with it, it is five to twelve."

They walked up the stairs and into the large banking hall. It was poorly lit and it took a few minutes for their eyes to adapt to the light. At the far end they saw a small group, two men and a young woman – no more than a teenager. As they drew closer they saw the men were Clay and Moran, but they did not recognise the woman. Clay extended his hand to shake Holmes'.

"I am so glad you have come, Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed. "Then quieter, "Come, sir, we are in public place, let us keep up appearances, if nothing else." Holmes hook his hand, coldly meeting his gaze. Moran did not extend his hand.

"All is ready!" continued Clay. "Oh, let me introduce you to Miss Elise Sweatham. Miss Sweatham, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. You might have read about him in magazines or books. The other man is Doctor Watson, who does a very poor job of telling us all about how Mr Holmes does things. Miss Sweatham, gentlemen, is the daughter of the Bank Manager here. Sweatham is co-operating, isn't he my dear, and all the time he is, all will be well. With everyone." These last few words were spoken both to the woman and Holmes.

"Let's do this, shall we?" said Moran, and the four of them were ushered by a clerk through a door and into the secure area of the bank.

Watson's mind was in a daze. So they were through. They were going to find our what the deposit box held, one of Moriarty's last secrets from thirty years ago. But now they were in, how on earth were they going to get out again safely? Had Holmes counted on there being a hostage? He patted his service revolver, still concealed in his jacket. Would he even get a chance to use it if necessary?


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: main characters belong to ACD. Well, here we are, we have arrived at the fateful day ... (see chapter 1).

**Chapter 13**

**19 January 1920**

Their footsteps, and the _tap, tap_ of Clay's walking stick, echoed down the passageway as they made their way down the bank's corridors towards the security vault. Clay himself walked ahead with the clerk, his whole demeanour quite jaunty, on occasion swinging the stick up to shoulder height in an action of delight. A smile was set on his face, whilst Moran, bringing up the rear, was quiet and preoccupied. Between them Holmes walked silently, his being the only footsteps difficult to hear – even in stressful times and at his age, his movements were still catlike. Watson walked with the girl, Miss Sweatham, trying to comfort her as the passage bore on.

After a minute or two they came to another door, which the clerk unlocked, and which was followed by a flight of stairs. "Come, come," invited Clay, excitedly waving them through. The door closed behind them, but remaining unlocked. Electric lights came on as they walked onwards.

Watson was trying to work out an escape route, and this last point was not lost on him. _So_, he thought to himself, _if we have to make a run for it the way is open._..

After what seemed like an age, but in truth was something less than a further couple of minutes, they came at last to the final door. Clay snapped his fingers, and the clerk handed him the key. "This really is most irregular," he said in anger. "I know Mr Sweatham has given you clearance, and let Mr Moran down here earlier with me to lay things up, but never in all my years here, man and boy, has the key to the strongroom been handed over to a stranger."

"Ah, but I'm not a stranger, am I?" replied Clay. "Ask Miss Sweatham here. I am a ... family friend, aren't I, my dear?" He passed the key to Moran.

"Yes," she replied, nervously.

"So you can go now."

"Well, I still don't like it," carried on the clerk. "Mr Sweatham's orders or not, I'm staying with you, sir."

"I think you really had better go," said Holmes. "Really I do."

There was something in Holmes' voice which carried the authority necessary. "Oh, very well," he replied, turned on his heels and walked back up the passageway from whence they had come.

Clay rubbed his hands in glee. "Excellent! Well, now, Holmes, let's do the deed shall we? And then we can be rid of each other. You can go back to your retirement and I can carry on running this little show. Moran, let's celebrate!"

He put the key in the lock which turned easily. Clay was the first in, and swept across to a table laid with a cloth, bottle of champagne and five glasses. "I asked Moran to prepare this earlier. I thought we might have a drink to toast the success of our endeavour!" he exclaimed.

"Great heavens, you are quite mad," said Watson.

"How dare you, sir!" shouted Clay. "I am of royal line! You shall not talk to me like that again!" In a flash he had drawn the end from his walking stick, and with a swish as he drew it from the hollow tube the concealed fencing foil's blade was at Watson's throat. As Miss Sweatham screamed Moran leaped forward, grabbing Clay's wrist.

"No. Clay, no. Let no blood be shed."

Clay abated. "Doctor, you should learn respect. Yes, very well. My apologies, my dear," he said to the young woman, "but you see with what I have to work. It isn't right, you know. I am of royal descent, a prince of men, and yet I have to work with such as these."

Moran went over to the table, pulled the cork and poured five glasses. He handed a glass to each of them. Clay raised his glass. "A toast, lady and gentlemen! To the Professor!"

Watson put his glass down, but seeing Holmes shake his head, picked it up again. He knew he was already walking a tightrope with the unstable Clay, who was growing more excited by the minute. They drained their glasses. Moran looked at his watch. "Come on, hurry."

Clay moved quickly. "Miss Sweatham, if you please would you sit on the chair over there. Thank you. Now, Mr Holmes, please, would you locate the deposit box."

This Holmes did quickly, and brought box A56 to the table. Clay reached forward and picked it up, turning it in his hand. It was a small metal case, about nine inches by nine, and three feet long. The front of one end had the keyhole for the door. Clay clicked his fingers to Moran. "The key, please."

Moran took the key from his pocket, but kept hold of it in his hand. "You presume too much, Clay."

Clay turned to face him, his features contorted with anger. "_What_!?"

"What I mean is, the Professor left the contents of this box to me. There is a letter to prove it, which you have seen. Do not forget that."

"But I am in charge of the Fellowship! It is mine!" shouted Clay.

"Don't you think it might be time to be relieved of that burden, Clay?"

"Never! Never! She will not accept you. She doesn't trust you! I know your game! You've just been waiting for this moment to oust me, but I'm not going to let you." The blade flashed in his hand again. "Now, give me the key, and let's get the box open." He took a breath. "Come, Moran, let's not fall out now. These last few weeks have been good, haven't they? All our plans? And when Bingelow said he didn't trust you, I killed him for you, didn't I?" His voice was becoming plaintive, almost childish. Holmes and Watson stood silently, knowing that they were watching the two men spar for the future of the Fellowship.

Moran laughed. "Yes, they have been good, Clay. Too good. I've seen you, running off to visit her, no doubt poisoning her against me. Again."

"She's never forgiven you, you know!" shouted Clay, his anger rising again. It was terrible to watch him trying to master his emotions; he seemed to be on the verge of exploding. Suddenly Watson realised just how precarious their situation was. One false word or move, and who knows what might befall one of them? He looked to Holmes, who was equally transfixed by the proceedings. Holmes looked likewise at him, and Watson with shock saw the look on his face. It filled him with fear. He had never seen that face before, so full of horror and doom .....

Clay continued to rail against Moran. "She knows, you know. She knows you can't be trusted. You know what she'll do!" He turned to Holmes and Watson. "She works like that, you know. She'll not harm you Mr Holmes, but, oh, Doctor, I think you'd better beware. That's how she'll get to Holmes! That's how!"

"Yes, that is indeed, isn't it?" said Holmes. "She hurts those closest to the one she wants to punish. We've seen it before, Clay."

"Yes, yes," said Clay dismissively. "Oh, for pity's sake, Moran, just open the thing and have done with it."

Moran turned the key in the lock. With a resistance borne of thirty years of closure, the door snapped open revealing the contents. Moran reached in and emptied the contents onto the table. A small bag, a rolled up piece of cloth and a small bundle of letters lay before them. Clay pushed him aside. "The jewels, the gold, where are they?"

Moran pushed him back. "Clay, these are mine. You have no right."

"I am the leader of the Fellowship! I alone! I have the right!"

"The Professor entrusted these to me. You know he did."

"No! It is to me that the leadership has come! You're yesterday's man! Turning up out of the blue! I am the future! I just say the word and she'll have you killed, you know that?"

"I gathered as much. She needs proof of my commitment to the Fellowship."

"And how exactly are you going to do that, Moran?"

"Well, I'll save her the trouble of her hurting Holmes, at least!" shouted Moran.

Time seemed to slow and he pushed Clay away, wresting the blade from him. He turned and faced Watson.

Watson saw rather than felt the blade enter his body. He saw the hilt get closer to his abdomen, somehow knowing with the astute mind of the surgeon that, given the length of the blade and the closeness of the hilt, that he had been run through. He opened his mouth to speak, and found he could not. A strange sensation was filling his whole body, a sense of peace and relaxation. He did not hear Holmes' shout of horror, nor Miss Sweatham's scream; he did not hear the vault door being thrown open as Lestrade and his police contingent arrived, pulling Moran away and arresting him; nor did he see Clay making off, back up the corridor, escaping in the confusion, looking back at the unexpected turn of events.

All he knew as the darkness descended was the sense of peace. He knew what was happening. He accepted it and closed his eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: original characters belong to ACD

**Chapter 14**

**January 22****, 1920**

Moran sat calmly on the wooden bench which filled the length of one side of the cell. Facing him on the other bench sat Sherlock Holmes. The awkward silence was at last broken by Moran.

"Thank you for visiting me."

"It was the least I could do, Moran."

"So, what happens next?"

"Well, O'Connor now spends a dangerous couple of months in the company of Mr Clay and his companions, working to bring down the Clay Street Fellowship."

"And, of course, there is the matter of the Duchess." Moran's voice trembled as he spoke her name.

"Yes, it is absolutely clear that she is the mastermind to whom Clay now reports. How it must pain him, not being in control!"

"I do not think he enjoys seeing her running the show. And of course, that means he will make mistakes."

Holmes smiled knowingly. "But of course. And when those mistakes are made, O'Connor will be there to make the final strike, and then he and Mr Wilson can retire."

"What about the Duchess?"

"My first target is Clay. It has to be. The Duchess is the guiding brain, but try proving it in a court of law. Whereas we have no doubt that Clay is guilty of many misdemeanours. He will be the easier to pin down and remove from civilised society. On the other hand, once the Fellowship is compromised I think she may decide to take a different path."

Moran laughed. "You make it sound as though it is as easy as servicing a malfunctioning machine."

"In many ways it is. Clay is predictable. All these years and still events have conspired so as to not disabuse him of his notion that he is a long-lost prince. And with such a high view of himself, it will be straightforward for O'Connor to manipulate events in order to spring the trap."

"You're sure he will not recognise you?"

"I have some skill," replied Holmes modestly.

"It is good to know that justice will be done at last. I know Bingelow was a brute, but Clay seemed to take a perverse enjoyment in killing him. He's got away – literally – with murder for too long. "

"As have you, Moran."

"Yes, I know that I deserve anything that they throw at me. Twenty-two men are dead at my hand, although not all that I have been accused of. I did not kill Mr Wiggins, Holmes, you know that, don't you? So - what do you think will happen?"

Holmes met his eyes steadily. "My honest opinion?"

"Please, Holmes."

"You asked me, many months ago, to kill you at the end of this case. To release you from the interminable torture of the nightmare that haunts you, night and day. And I said I would not kill you. I don't do that sort of thing, you know, Moran."

"I was foolish to ask. I should have known better."

"Yes, you should. But there is something you don't know. Which is that, in some small way, I know what you're going through."

Moran laughed coldly. "Oh, come now, you're just toying with me now."

"No, I mean it. I have a recurring dream. Have had it for years, although it only came to a head during your stay with us in August."

"I remember it well. You all but raised the household."

"And I know now that Professor Moriarty killed my parents. It's a memory, just like yours – albeit yours are far more serious and deserved. But I thought that once the fact of the Professor's role was revealed that they would somehow cure themselves – as though the dreams were leading up to the denouement."

"But...?"

"I had the dream again, last night. Except it wasn't Moriarty's face that was revealed, but yours."

Moran seemed taken aback. "Well, they say the mind plays all sorts of strange tricks, don't they? I didn't kill your parents, Holmes."

"Oh, I know. For one thing, you were not in the country at the time of their deaths. No, have no fear that I'm going to start blaming you for their deaths. It's all too late, anyway. I'm just ... disappointed that they're back. I really thought they were banished." He took a breath. "And so, you see, I do have an inkling – however small – of what you experience every waking and sleeping moment."

"Thank you."

"And so, for my honest opinion. They will put you on trial for Watson's murder, they will find you guilty, and you will be executed. There is no doubt as to the verdict. Lestrade arrived just at the right time; Clay's bloodstained blade was still in your hand, Watson collapsing to the floor after you had run him through with the sword. Clay of course escaped, but that was to be expected in the mayhem. Oh, no, Moran, there is not doubt. The usual method of execution is by hanging – a quick drop, broken neck, instantaneous. And so, in a way, I am doing what you asked me to do – to kill you. Only it will not be my hand on the handle, I am happy to say."

Moran sat with closed eyes, concentrating on Holmes' words. "And at last I will have release. Oh, glory!"

Holmes shot him a glance. "Yes, you shall."

"And you promise to make it right with her?"

"Of course. My word is my bond, Moran."

"Thank you, Holmes, I knew I could trust you."

"'Trust' is an oft misused word."

"But in your case, wholly justified, I think. I just want you to make it right with her."

"And you're still certain she is not to know?"

"But of course. How can she know what her father has done?" Moran's head sank into his hands. "What have I done? So much innocent blood!"

"There are some things I need to know, Moran."

"Ask away." Moran composed himself.

"Tell me more about the Duchess. So I am prepared when I meet her."

Moran thought for a moment. "Oh, what a woman, Holmes! You can only imagine. Absolutely stunning! Still is, even now, in her fifties. When I met her the first time she caught my heart. She had been widowed only recently. The Duke had died on their honeymoon in Egypt – can you imagine that? No sooner married than widowed. He was shot during a riot in Cairo. She too still carries scars where she was hit herself, on her arm, neck ...

"It broke me to arrange the burglary, but, believe me, Holmes, I was in fear of my life. I had never seen the Professor so angry. So I went through with it. I hoped she might not be hurt too deeply, but my hope was in vain. In shame, she lost everything. It broke her. But – she being the sort of woman she was – after a year or two, started again from the bottom and rebuilt her life. I think it started with a win on the horses, then some clever investments, and by the time our paths crossed again – just before we met, Mr Holmes – she was a society woman again.

"There was still the spark between us. But of course, the Professor's influence was over me even after he had gone to his grave. When I resolved to tell her the truth, I could see it broke her relationship with me for ever. And when I heard she had died, well a bit of my world died with her. I hoped for death then but they sent me to Bescott instead. Perhaps this time ..." He sighed again. "And then of course, to find she was alive – and then to find out about the child. Well it all made sense, didn't it? Her 'death', nine months or so after we met again in Park Lane – well, I should have seen it, shouldn't I? That's what they always used to do, wasn't it? - to 'go away to the country'? So although by her crimes the Duchess has forfeited her right to a civilised life, not so her – our – daughter."

"I will make sure she receives her inheritance, Moran. She would I think, on those grounds, be proud of her father."

"Perhaps; but only on those grounds. No other. In everything else, I am of no credit to her. She must not know, Holmes. You promised. Just give her the goods I stole from the Duchess – they are hers now. Her inheritance."

"Have no fear. She will not know. Not from me. But she may try to find out – to trace the history of what she will receive. What happens then?"

Moran pondered this for a moment. "If she wants to spend time searching, then that is fine. At least she will have taken the trouble to find out. But I am not volunteering the information, Holmes."

"I didn't expect you to. It's just that if I were her, I would search, so the truth will out one way or the other, Moran."

"But she isn't you, Holmes. You can't know what she will do."

Holmes let the matter rest. "Moran, I doubt whether we shall meet again.. So I will say this – make your peace with her before it is too late."

"Who? The Duchess, or our daughter? No, Holmes, I will go to my grave alone. Thank you for your help in getting me to this point. Have no regrets." He stood up. "I think you should leave now."

"Very well. Goodbye, Moran."

Sherlock Holmes left the prison and stood in the rain outside. _Time for Holmes to disappear for a few months_, he thought, _and for O'Connor to do his work_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer**: main characters belong to ACD.

Well here we are, at the last chapter. Is the ghost from Holmes and Watson's past the ghost you were expecting?

I would like to make a suggestion before you read on. Please re-read _Chapter 1_ of this story – which recounts events earlier in this particular day – and also my first story, the one-shot '_Falling_'. Thank you for all your kind reviews.

**Chapter 15**

**Tuesday, 7th September 1920**

It was, indeed, a long journey back to Sussex. By the time Holmes arrived, the sun was starting to set; evening birdsong was filling the air, and the bees had settled in their hive for the night. Mr Horton had offered his usual service to Holmes – one which he had been happy to do since Holmes had helped his family in a matter of great delicacy – in collecting him from the station, and had left him at the garden gate. Holmes walked up the path to the front door, turned the key and entered.

On the one hand he felt exhausted; many months spent as the Irishman O'Connor, working inside the 'Clay Street Fellowship' as it fell apart around him, with the ringleaders one by one being arrested and brought to justice. When he was not O'Connor, he had spent every waking minute working tirelessly, researching the leads he was given by stray remarks of gang members, of names dropped, places mentioned, slowly and surely piecing together the jigsaw of the case, both to allow the police to make their moves against the 'Fellowship' and to further his knowledge of some of their key members.

A few minutes after his arrival he had poured himself a brandy and had settled himself in his favourite chair, in the small lounge, to re-read the day's newspaper. At last he put it down and picked up from the table a rolled up piece of cloth and a packet of letters – those same items which had lain for thirty years in the safety deposit box of Professor Moriarty. Only the bag was missing.

As the shadows lengthened he turned on the light to aid his study, and unrolled the cloth. It was a painting, quite amateurish, of a country house. It had, in past years, hung in a cheap frame on the wall of the Professor's 'office' in Marylebone; for some poor unfortunates, that office was the room in which their fate was sealed. With a wry smile Holmes recalled Moran's description of his own meeting with the Professor, down to his recollection of the picture. It had seemed out of place in the rest of the ordered anonymity surrounding the Professor.

But now, looking at the picture, Holmes sighed deeply. He recognised it, of course, for it was the family home in which he and his brother had spent their early years – the Squire's manor, in the grounds of which, in the former gamekeeper's cottage, he was now sitting. He could see the same house as he looked out of the window; on a slight rise, beyond the orchard. It had been a conscious decision, of course, to return in his retirement to the place where he had spent those happy years, so cruelly cut short by the Professor. Not the manor itself, of course, for the buried memories which returned in his dreams would have given him no peace, of that he was sure.

So many things had been cut short by the Professor. With a sigh, and half reluctantly, he slit the string tying the packet of letters, but put them to one side. He had read some, of course, but not all. He knew there were some in the packet for which he would need help to face.

Right on cue the lounge door opened. "I thought I heard you arrive."

"I did not want to wake you," Holmes replied.

"Is it over?"

"Yes."

"As expected?"

"Moran has been sentenced to hang. It is over. Mr Wilson can enter his well-earned retirement." Holmes smiled.

"But the hiding goes on." In one respect Holmes saw that a great weight had been lifted from Watson's shoulders in that moment. "I am getting fed up being something I am not – or someone, rather."

"It was necessary," replied Holmes. "It still is, my old friend. John Hamish Watson died in that bank vault. In some circles you can never appear again. The alias must remain. It would cause ... embarrassment. "

"Especially since someone will be hanged for my murder; yes, it would be."

"You are well?" It was a question Holmes asked every evening of his friend during his visits from his home in Devon, and by his tone he betrayed that he was always worried there might be a change in his friend's condition.

"You worry too much, Holmes," replied Watson. "I'm a doctor. I would know any signs of concern."

"You never did trust Moran, did you?"

"Of course not. But then, as usual Holmes, you chose not to tell me what was going on."

"And I say as I have said on many occasions before, Watson," replied Holmes. "Which is, namely, that you are an excellent fellow and have many abilities – despite my teasing of you – but one quality you do not have is the ability to obfuscate. Had I told you what was going on, we would not have succeeded."

Watson went over to the table and sat down, with a slight wince as he did so. He pulled a notebook from his pocket. "So, now it is all over, you are not going to your bed until you have provided me with some answers so that I can write up an account of this case. I have been at a complete loss, and I would really appreciate some explanations. At times I feel as though there have been cases within cases."

Holmes smiled. "Only one case, Watson, but many facets, that is true enough. Very well. Where you you want to start?"

"At the beginning. It's always good to start there."

"Very well. For your benefit I will fill in some details. But you would not expect a full account. I am not going to let you give all the tricks of my trade away," he finished with a chuckle.

"It may not be picked up anyway," replied Watson. "I can't present it as my work, can I?"

"Others have had works published posthumously." Seeing Watson's face, Holmes tried not to laugh, but failed at the last. "Very well. So, where to start? Well, with the Professor I suppose. Who lined up a job for Moran to burgle the home of the Duchess of Mortonwell - but Moran fell in love, hook, line and sinker. Smitten."

"It seems unlike him."

"Perhaps. But love can change a man – as you well know. But after his initial failure, the Professor threatens Moran to within an inch of his life, when the deed is done it breaks the Duchess. The theft of her jewels, the fact she lived as a widow, conspired to cause her to experience something of a breakdown. Surely, though, she rebuilt her life, and when they met again – the day before Adair was killed, you recall, and which marked my re-emergence from my own 'death' – she is successful and the spark is rekindled."

"Useful history, Holmes, but how does this relate to the events of this last year?"

"Patience, my old friend, you will see. So, where was I? Ah, yes. The consequences of their immediate actions is that she now carries Moran's child, but immediately they estranged again. That thread of his life we know too well – the murder of Adair, our trapping him in the empty house opposite 221B, and his eventual committal to Bescott House for 'correction'. Which, I will say now, was entirely successful. Let's be clear about that."

Watson rubbed his stomach tenderly. "So you would have me believe."

Holmes ignored him. "The Duchess, meanwhile, retires to Kent to have the baby. She needs to disappear, for the life she has been leading would be unduly complicated by the presence of a child. She abandons the child when it is born, and then quietly reinvents herself. Again. It is what she is good at. Did I tell you about the Duke?"

"He died in a riot in Egypt, on their honeymoon."

"Yes, he did; but what I haven't told you before is that she killed him."

"_What_?"

"Oh, yes, it is undoubtedly true. I have checked with the police in Cairo. They sent me the post mortem. As a result of my work they have re-opened the case, and are seeking their own warrant for her arrest and extradition."

"Amazing."

Holmes smiled. "Meanwhile, as we know, in Moran's absence Clay takes over the Professor's empire and gradually, carefully, rebuilds it to become a feared operation again. Always the businessman, Clay maintains a baseline income from extortion from the local traders, including Wiggins, and a few others whom I have had the pleasure of making my re-acquaintance. Until things come to a head – namely, my involvement."

"Hearing you were after them was a cause of some concern, no doubt. Your reputation is well known, and Clay has plenty of reason to fear you."

"And the Duchess, of course. Quite brilliant. To those outside the 'Fellowship' she is just another plain Jane. No-one would suspect her of being involved in such unsavoury affairs. But within the Fellowship, she is 'the Duchess' again. Imagine how that panders to Clay's dreams of royalty. He accepts her unquestioningly, but over time she undercuts him and latterly is the true brain behind the criminal activities. A cruel brain, marked by the increasing violence of the crimes they commit."

"Oh, come, Holmes. She is a woman. How could she best Clay?"

"We have come across some formidable women in our time, Watson."

"True, but even so, Holmes, the degree of savagery that the papers tell of, I can't imagine a woman behind it all."

"Really?"

"No, I cannot."

"Hold that thought for a moment, then. So, to the events of last January. As you know, I did some sterling work as O'Connor in the autumn, so much so that I had access to the inner circle, meeting Clay on a number of occasions. I put it to them that Moran was seeking reconciliation, and they duly met up, whence Moran started playing his part spectacularly well. We met a number of times throughout the autumn in secret - even from you, Watson, for what was to pass needed, I am afraid, and for the reasons I have already explained, to be kept from you."

"Hmm. Perhaps. But it is a nasty habit of yours, Holmes!"

"I carefully weigh up everything, but there was still at the point when it all came together, great risk. I was so aware that it could all go wrong. So, on the day, which I am sure you remember very well, Clay kidnaps the Manager's daughter early in the morning, and sent word to me to meet him."

"At the expense of Bingelow."

"Yes, unusual, I think that was one of the few murders Clay has actually committed. In other respects he has followed both the Professor and, dare I say it, Moran, very well. Always one step removed from the smoking gun. But you will admit it certainly caught our attention, if only to realise the severity and urgency of his requirement. It was now or never. And it is probably all clear to you now, from that point on."

"Well, I recall that you ordered the cab unnecessarily loudly. But of course the police didn't know where we were to go, and 221B was under their surveillance. We might also have been being watched by members of the 'Fellowship' at that point."

"Very good, Watson, your enforced recuperation has done wonders!"

"But after that I'm lost."

"Oh well, we can't have it all ways." Holmes smiled at his old companion. "Honestly, I thought with all your complaints about how old you felt, you would have enjoyed some months' enforced rest."

"Not in that way, Holmes. Anyway, continue, it's late."

"My apologies. So, Moran has previously accessed the vault. He is allowed to do so by Sweatham who co-operates with him for fear for his daughter. Moran prepares the drinks as directed by Clay. Quite the showman, and of course Moran had put the idea into his head to do this, doubtless playing up my fondness for expensive drink."

"I hadn't noticed you had such a taste."

"Neither had I! But Clay wasn't to know, and of course this was critical that it should be there."

"How is that?"

"Because otherwise Moran would not have been able to prepare your glass with the narcotic I had made up the night before."

"I was drugged!?"

"Of course. Let me guess now – you didn't feel the sword, did you? You felt peace and tranquility?"

"I thought that was what death was like."

Holmes laughed. "No, not death, but to the untrained eye, almost as good as. A potent blend of herbs and fungi, _belladonna_ especially; but once you had drunk it, the blow had to be delivered at a specific time – three and a half minutes exactly. I must admit it was touch and go; Moran handled Clay very well, but it was close. I noticed you were starting to go under before the blade struck; not that the unsuspecting or untrained eye would have noticed, but it was very close. A few more seconds and you would have been out before the blow had been struck, and that would have rather spoiled things."

"Not just my shirt!"

"I have already made that right with you, Watson. I had spent many hours with Moran, getting the blow just right – it had to be with Clay's sword, for then there would be no doubt that the blow was genuine. But he did it, as I knew he would – ran you through at the one point where it is possible to do so without causing a mortal wound. Damage, yes, spectacular, yes, but mortal, no."

"You knew he would succeed?"

"I had trained him well. I was ninety-nine per cent certain."

"Very reassuring."

"I had previously arranged with Lestrade that we should be given six minutes after entering the bank before he followed, and he was right on time. He saw what he needed to see – Moran killing you, red handed if you excuse the pun."

"But how did you fool him into my death?"

"Simple. Firstly, the preparation is so potent that for a minute after application your heart does stop. In the confusion I shouted for Miss Sweatham to get a doctor, so she ran upstairs and into the lobby, where who did she meet but a doctor attending a woman who had fainted. So she was able to get him, he came, pronounced death, and took charge of the body."

"That's just chance, Holmes!"

"Not at all. Young Lestrade has not had the pleasure of meeting either my brother nor Mrs Hudson. It was all arranged."

Watson whistled in submission. "But Clay got away."

"He needed to. Otherwise we would not have got to the Duchess, who is our real concern. She would still think she could hurt me through you. Your 'death' meant that you were safely out of the equation. And as to what followed, we must thank O'Connor."

"I read in the paper about Clay's arrest. I take it the 'Fellowship' is no more?"

"Crippled, yes. It might rise in some form again, but never again so potently. And with the Duchess wanted in both Egypt and in this country, whilst she has disappeared again I think it will be some considerable time before her influence is apparent again. At least, that is my hope. Lestrade has all the documents and accounts I was able to provide as O'Connor."

"Well, I've said it once and I'll say it again, and no doubt will continue to say it. Amazing, Holmes. You've done it again."

Holmes was quiet for a moment. "It would seem so, would it not? But I am afraid there is more, and will cause you to 'unsay' your kind compliments."

"'Unsay'? How so?"

"I should have felt so happy at the end of the trial, but I do not. Two reasons. Number one, Lestrade told me yesterday that, should the verdict on Moran be execution, then he would instead be returned to Bescott. To see what went wrong." He sighed. "I promised him release from his continuous nightmare. I will never forget the look on his face when the sentence was given. He welcomed death. But now he will feel I have betrayed him. He will not be pleased."

"But no harm can come, surely, Holmes. They will not release him, knowing what has happened."

"You think not? I wish I had your confidence, Watson. Which is why you must, except in my company, always be Mr Wilson. I think there is every possibility they will eventually release him. It would be dangerous, I think, for us to be around when that happens. But I have nonetheless done most of what he asked, so my conscience is clear in that respect."

"What did he ask?"

"For me to kill him. It appear that part of the arrangement may have failed. But, more successfully, that his daughter should be given the goods stolen in the burglary from the Duchess. That I have done. She was there at the trial, she knows he is her father. She did her research. It was not hard for her to put the clues together."

"How awful to see her father condemned. How did you find her?"

"Oh, Watson, it was not hard. That first time I saw her, did you not see the family resemblance? No, of course, you did not, even though I asked you."

"When ...?"

"The night of Moran's visit. The family resemblance is strong. Moran's daughter is Miss Violet's friend Emma."

"My word!"

"It all fits. Raised by an aunt in Kent ..." Holmes continued.

"The Duchess?"

"Exactly. Who undoubtedly has filled Miss Emma's mind with all sorts of poison about the wrongs she has suffered. And now she has wealth."

Watson poured himself a drink. "Well, I for one wish her well. But surely you worry too much about Moran, though."

"May I remind you that he should not have been released the first time; everyone thought that. I think the order from his release came from a higher authority. I think someone wanted to see what he would do, and particularly hoped he would want revenge on me."

"Who could do such a thing?"

"The Duchess. I think she has many aliases, and holds some sway in high places as well as low."

"But what could she want against you?"

"Oh, Watson, in many ways you will never change," smiled Holmes. "Do you still not see? You know the Duchess."

"I would recall, surely."

"Not under that name of course. Try 'Mary Wilcox'."

"_No_!!"

"But yes. And you see my peril. She has gone to ground. Her daughter Emma – who is, I remind you, the product of an evil, calculating, cold woman and a man who, before Bescott, was renowned for his hardness, cunning and cruelty – now also has great wealth and power. She has means at her disposal. Means to do the Duchess' bidding. It is not safe for me."

Watson was still trying to come to terms with this latest revelation. "Mary Wilcox ... now that's a name I have no fond memories of."

Holmes poured a drink. "So I must disappear, I am afraid. Not for long, I hope. I have provided, and will continue to provide, our constabulary friends with information. But before I go, there is one last task. Be with me as I open these, Watson."

He untied the packet of papers. His hand trembled as he opened each one in turn, and laid them on the table next to each other.

"The Duchess wanted to get the burglary goods back – but, for me, _this_ is Moriarty's gold. Love letters. Love letters from the Professor to my mother. He loved her, but then fell ill, and in the meantime my father won her heart. I believe he never stopped loving her – hence the picture of the Manor. She returned them to him, unopened. He killed them, you know, and had the chance to kill my brother and I before stopping himself - but it changed him. I'm sure he almost instantly regretted it, and although it did not stop his criminal ambitions, once he knew what I became I think he always knew our paths would eventually cross, and that I deserved to be revenged upon him. I know I have some skill, but at Reichenbach he went over far too easily - almost as though he decided at that point that he would surrender to me."

"Remarkable."

"And this last letter is from him – to me." Holmes read it quietly.

_Holmes._

_If you are reading this I have passed from this world, and I hope it was at your hand. Feel no sorrow, for I took from you your wonderful, dear mother. I know it makes scant difference now, but – I am truly sorry. I have been a lesser man for that deed. Moran will be in touch regarding other matters._

_Moriarty._

Watson whistled under his breath. "Well, that's the end, then, Holmes?"

"Apart from my need to leave, tomorrow, early; yes, it is over."

"Correction, Holmes. For us to leave. But where?"

Holmes smiled warmly at his friend, and tossed a letter onto the table. "I am so grateful, Watson. This arrived this morning. My cousin is having some problems on an archaeological dig in Egypt, and seeks my help. Egypt being one country that the Duchess cannot pursue us to ..." He looked expectantly at Watson. "And of course, with winter soon upon us here, the warmer climate should seal your recovery."

Watson smiled at his old friend. "Will it be Mr Wilson or Doctor Watson who accompanies you?"

"I think the latter, quite safely."

"Then, with relief, I will pack."

**THE END**


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